


Farewell Wanderlust

by Disniq



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Dean Winchester Has Issues, Episode: s15e09 The Trap, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Other, Purgatory, canon background characters, canon-compliant to s15e09, dean/cas domestic dispute, purgatory as therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:07:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29442354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Disniq/pseuds/Disniq
Summary: Michael can get Dean and Cas into Purgatory, but they’ll have to find their own way out. They’ve done it before, should be a breeze, right?Wrong.Purgatory has got a whole hell of a lot more complicated since their last visit.Between dropping right in the middle of Benny’s monster-leviathan turf war, looking for some mysterious blossom in an entire plain of existence with no idea what it looks like, and navigating the suffocating aftermath of his own harsh words to Cas, Dean has enough on his plate. Too bad the universe doesn’t believe in giving him afuckingbreak.(Alternative title: 15x09 The Trap, Except Benny is NOT Dead, Andrew, I Will Fight You)
Relationships: Castiel/Benny Lafitte/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17
Collections: Destiny Big Bang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This fic has eaten basically every spare second for the past four months, and it's been a massive departure from my usual writing process. It's been incredibly difficult at times, but I am absolutely thrilled to be able to share my first ever Big Bang after over 20 years in fandom! 
> 
> Huge thank you to [Fangirlingtodeath513](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirlingtodeath513/pseuds/fangirlingtodeath513) for beta'ing 80% of this story while it was still in pieces, and an even bigger thank you to Laura, who isn't even in fandom but came through in the 11th hour when I finally finished the rest! 
> 
> And, of course, to the delightful [Alisuwink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alisuwink/pseuds/Alisuwink) for the amazing [art!](https://alisuwink.tumblr.com/post/643376381776003072/my-art-for-farewell-wanderlust-by-disniq-a)

“I can open a door,” Michael says, in the ethereal gold glow of the portal, gleaming bright against the faded bookcases of storage room three. “But I can’t keep it open.”

“Then how the hell do we get back?”

“You’ve made it out of Purgatory before, if Castiel’s memories are to be believed. Do it again.”

“You could come with us,” Cas says. “Help us.”

“I could,” Michael nods, locks eyes with Cas over Dean’s shoulder. “But I won’t. If you make it out alive, pray and I’ll come to you.”

// 

“We need to go now,” Cas says. It’s more words than he’s spoken to Dean in months and it’s the last ones he wants to hear.

Dean paces the empty War Room, _step, step, turn, step, step,_ brain whirring too fast to keep still _._ The echo, high and hollow, isn’t loud enough to drown Cas out.

“We can’t wait for Sam and Eileen to get back.”

They’ve gone to help her friend, didn’t say where. They might be back in a few hours, they might be gone for days. Dean didn’t think to ask, and there’s no way to know for sure when Sam isn’t answering his damn phone.

“Dean.”

He just needs to _think_ , fuck. Michael seems genuine, but is this just another of Chuck’s party tricks? There’s probably no way to know for sure.

“ _Dean._ ”

“Okay,” Dean snaps. “Fine. You grab the borax shells, I’ll leave a note.”

//

The bleak sepia of Purgatory is the same as it always was, dull light filtered through grey-green tree canopies too high to make out and the sweet, earthy smell of perpetual decay.

It soothes Dean’s soul like nothing else, and what does that say about him. At least he can get some goddamn space here, away from Sam’s overbearing worry, and Eileen’s sympathetic looks, and Cas’ cold shoulder routine, and the weird negative space where Jack used to be.

“Let’s split up,” he says, pointing vaguely. “Cover more ground.”

But Cas just levels him an unimpressed look, fierce and blue and unwavering.

“Just stop. Stop being so fucking stupid,” and he marches into the forest so full of righteous purpose it leaves Dean no choice but to follow.

//

Dean doesn’t know why, but it’s easier to process in Purgatory. It always was.

Maybe it’s that there’s nobody else here, maybe it’s the oppressive atmosphere of quiet decomposition that makes him itch to fill the air with words. Maybe it’s just what Purgatory does, rummages through your baggage until it uncovers all your questions and regrets and worries, drags your issues out into the light and makes you really look at them.

Dean’s got more regrets than most folks, he’d wager. Some more recent than others. Mom. Jack. _Cas._

The thought, once he has it, grows like a fungus - a microscopic spore taking seed, sprouting, expanding until it engulfs his brain. Dean chews on it for an hour or so before he finally spits, “So, why’d you come back?”

Cas doesn’t react, doesn’t pause. But Dean has popped the cork now, he can’t stop the rest from bubbling up, every thought he’s bitten back since Cas showed back up at the bunker.

“I mean, you said you were done right? Done with us, done with--” _Me_. He’d all but said he was done with _Dean._ “--Everything. So why come back?”

“I suppose,” Cas hedges. Slows his steps, sighs heavily. Doesn’t look at Dean. “I didn’t want to keep running from my problems.”

It’s more honest than Dean was expecting, and it hits like a fucking gut punch. He snaps without thinking.

“ _Problem,_ huh? Gee, Cas, tell me what you really think.”

“Okay,” Cas snaps back. Rounds on Dean, marches right back into his space, movements sharp with cold fury. “I left because you were angry. Too angry to listen--”

“I was angry for a goddamn reason, man! You went against the plan, you fucked up. You fucked up and Rowena--”

“I already apologised! For Rowena. For Jack. For _Mary._ I’ve made mistakes, we have _all_ made mistakes but _you_ never--” Cas cuts himself off short. Huffs through his nose, smooths his face back to cool composure and, _fuck,_ Dean wishes he could just turn it off like that but he never could. “I apologised. I apologised to you, you just refused to hear it.”

 _You never apologise,_ he was going to say, and fuck him. Maybe Dean doesn’t say the words, maybe he can’t offer those platitudes. But he _shows_ he’s sorry, he stays and deals with the fallout. Lets people blow up, rage at him until they’re done and then helps them pull themselves back together. 

Cas didn’t even give them that chance.

“Maybe if you didn’t just up and leave we could’ve--”

“What, Dean? Could’ve _what_? You couldn’t forgive me, and you couldn’t move on.”

Cas holds his gaze for a long, silent moment. Then he nods sharply, steps back and only after does Dean realise how close they’d been standing. The sudden absence makes the words feel harsher in the cool air.

“I left. But you didn’t stop me.”

On the bright side, the stony silence makes it real easy to hear the third set of footsteps tracking behind them.

//

“We have a tail,” Dean murmurs.

“Yes, I’d noticed,” Cas snipes back.

“Maybe we can use ‘em,” Dean says. “Follow my lead.”

//

“What do you want,” the leviathan spits, and this is easy. This, Dean can do in his sleep.

“Well, it’s a little embarrassing saying it out loud, but we’re looking for a flower.”

“A flower?” Bigmouth scoffs. “What do I look like, a florist?”

“Well, if you can’t help us,” Dean says, hefts his freshly loaded borax shotgun and the levi changes tune real quick.

“We don’t call it a flower, but there is a blossom. Grows out of the soil when we rot.”

“There we go. And I thought you weren’t a florist.”

//

An uncomfortable walk follows; countless hours down a riverbank that might be picturesque in any other dimension, but here is just as dark and vaguely ominous as everything else. 

Dean is in no mood for small talk, and he ain’t getting into it with Cas right in front of this bigmouth, so the echoey murmur of the water is the only thing that breaks the palpable silence.

“Hey,” he says, when the awkwardness finally gets on his last nerve, when he'd willingly chop off his arm for some decent company. “You know a vamp around here named Benny? Burly guy, Cajun.”

“No,” the levi shrugs, casual and unconcerned. “Heard of him though. Everybody has.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

“The dumb bastard who got out and came back? Story like that goes around.”

“Yeah, pretty much. Where is he?”

“Dead.”

That stops Dean short. He doesn’t want to know. He asks anyway. 

“How?”

The leviathan turns to face him, slow and unconcerned. 

“His own kind.” Grins wide, malicious. “They didn’t trust him. Held him down and ripped him apart. Took their sweet time, too, the way I hear it.”

“No.”

“Oh, yeah,” the grin grows impossibly wider. Cas tenses at Dean’s side, and Dean realises what’s happening too late. “We won’t offer you the same courtesy.”

Five more leviathan melt out of the trees.

Dean twists and shoots one in the face before it grabs him, cracks a second with the butt of the gun and it staggers backwards but then the first one knocks his legs out from under him before he can take another swing.

A third braces against his shoulders, keeps him pinned, kicks his gun out of reach. Through a face full of dry grass and purgatory dirt, Dean can see the other four levis struggle to keep Cas contained between them.

“See,” the chatty one says, crowds Cas in further. “Eve’s got beef with you, angel.”

“ _Eve_ Eve?” Dean says, pulling the leader’s attention back to him. If he stretches his arm out behind him he can almost feel the cool metal of his gun, if he can just _reach._ “She’s alive?”

“Sure is,” it smirks. Steps away from Cas. “And she’s pissed at the angel for swallowing up all her precious babies like steroids. But you? Oh, she really wants to get back at you. Killing her children is one thing, but killing _her?_ Well. She’ll reward us nicely for bringing her one of the famous Winchesters.”

“Oh, good,” Dean spits. Tilts his chin upwards to look the thing in it’s smug face, inches his hand back just a little more. “You do know who you’re dealing with.”

“Of course I do, Deano,” it coos. “I played you on TV once.”

The flesh of its face melts like wax, ripples back on itself; black then grey then tanned, freckled skin and Dean is looking up at his own green eyes.

 _There,_ his fingers wrap around the barrel, and he brings it up to brain the mouthy fuck just as Cas shouts, “Close your eyes!” and the world turns atomic white for a second.

Dean blinks the starburst away just in time to see Cas collapse to the ground, and then a sharp pain shoots through his skull and everything goes dark.

//

There’s mud on his cheek. Dry and crumbling. It’s this persistent itch that drags Dean gradually back to consciousness.

His head throbs sickeningly, aches right down his neck. The dull light of purgatory feels like a fucking floodlight even through his eyelids, searing his brain blood-vessel red.

Keeping his eyes closed tight, he shifts minutely. Assesses. Tries to get his bearings.

He’s laid on the ground, face down. Shirt and jacket are twisted uncomfortably up his back in a way that screams _moved to a secondary location_. When he flexes his numb fingers, he discovers his wrists are tied too - right in the small of his back.

Dean rolls slightly to the side, tries to ease the awkward angle of his neck without cutting all circulation to his arms. The movement twinges his bum knee, but he does learn that his feet are free. Amateurs.

Now that he’s actually taking stock, his clothes don’t appear to have been searched, either. Dean can feel the pocket knife he keeps in his boot and the multitool inside his jacket. Chances are good his lockpicks are safe and sound in his jacket seam.

Good. He has options. 

Feeling slightly more secure, Dean steels himself with a deep breath before cracking open his eyes. The world blinks slowly, painfully into focus and he finds himself trapped in a makeshift cage. Thick branches bound with knotted fronds; very Rambo. 

A second cage sits a few feet to his right, empty, and a third beyond holds what looks like a woman but probably isn't, sat with her back against the bars.

On his left, three figures are huddled by a fourth cell and there, laid out cold on the dirt-

“Cas!” Dean surges up onto his knees, forgets all about his probable concussion. His stomach turns, gags him, but he chokes out, “Get away from him!” loud enough to get their attention.

One of the guards, the shorter of the three, steps towards him. A woman. Young. Blonde, maybe, under the layers of purgatory grime. She stops a good three paces away, well out of reach. Smart.

“Oh, it lives,” she sneers. Nods her head back at Cas. “So does your friend. For now.”

Dean sags forwards against the bars. Notes somewhere beyond his relief that they’re sturdier than they look. Dammit.

The woman watches him as Dean battles through the blood rushing in his ears, emotions surging in his chest. His head swims.

“What,” he grits out. “Did you do to him?”

“Us?” she says. Frowns exaggeratedly, mock offended. “Nothing at all.”

Dean can’t see past his own spotted vision enough to tell if Cas is moving at all. Remembers seeing him drop, but using his grace doesn’t usually take so much out of him. Cas hasn’t been laid out like this since, shit, probably Ramiel and his magic pig sticker, and that thought does not make Dean feel better. 

“My scouts say he took out five leviathan at once and passed out cold. That one survived,” she jerks her head at the woman in the cage - sat stock still, staring blankly ahead, not even a trademark leviathan three mile smile. “The others were incinerated.”

“Yeah, angels will do that,” Dean threatens as best he can with bile on his chin. Tries to regain some footing, tries to work out who the fuck these guys are. “And you just put yourself at the top of his shitlist.”

“Yeah, he’s real scary,” she scoffs. “You should sleep, too, Dean. I want you coherent when I question you.”

//

Reluctantly, he does.

He’d blame the concussion, but between Sam’s weird vision connection to Chuck taking up their every waking moment and the awkward, uncomfortable tension of him and Cas’ avoiding each other as much as you can in one building, Dean is keenly aware that he hasn’t slept properly since before he drove out to Texas, since before _Lee_.

He’s not touching that particular can of worms right now, and, at any rate, there are more pressing matters to work through. Dean has to admit that his head is clearer after his impromptu nap. Clear enough that he starts putting pieces together.

The woman before looked human, but her snarling guards were definitely vamps. The only levi here is caged, and the guy on duty now is pacing between the cells, dragging his sharp, nasty, overdue-for-a-manicure nails against the bars in a vague pattern. Werewolf.

Big picture is starting to look an awful lot like the monsters of monsterland have put aside their differences and unionised.

The cells seem to face outwards into the forest - if Dean squints through the bars at his back can make out larger shapes in the mist. Tents, maybe, vague between the thick, dark tree trunks. They clearly have some sort of structure going on here.

Dean’s knee throbs as he shifts in the cramped space. His shoulders ache where they’re pulled back too tightly, his fingers numb with lack of circulation. He can’t make them work well enough to feel for the lockpick in his hem of his jacket.

Something in his peripheral moves, and Dean snaps around so fast he goes dizzy again. Belatedly notices that Cas’ cage is empty, the door swinging every time the wolf brushes past.

“Hey!” he shouts, but his dry throat sticks and he has to cough through it. “Hey, ugly! What did you do to him, huh? Where’s the angel?”

“ _Where’s the angel, where’s the angel._ You really are a broken record, Dean Winchester.”

It’s the woman again, snuck up behind him. She circles his cage, never coming close enough to kick out at. Stops directly in front of him, sets down a flask just close enough that if Dean’s hands were free, he’d be able to grab it. The water is thick and dark and it occurs to Dean just how parched his mouth is, dry tongue agitating his cracked lips. 

“Cooperate and it’s yours,” she offers and, somehow, it still sounds like a threat.

Okay. Dean can play this game. He sits back, shrugs as casually as he can with his arms twisted behind him. _Your party._

“Good choice,” the woman says. She stays standing, frowning down at him. “What are you doing back here, Dean? Rumour has it you and the angel got out.”

“Rumour doesn’t know the half of it,” he mutters, despite himself. 

She nudges the flask with her foot, sloshes water over the rim with careful deliberation. Makes a soft little _whoops_ , smiles a feral flash of teeth.

“So enlighten me. You were here, you were every monster's worst nightmare, tearing through this place. And you got out. So why. Come. Back.”

“Needed a flower,” he shrugs. Honest Truth.

Her eyebrows scrunch down, a mix of annoyance and confusion. It makes her look young. “A _flower?_ ”

“Flower, _blossom._ More of a husk, really.”

“What for?”

Dean leans into the bars, mock-whispers, “Magic. Woo~oo.”

It’s probably a good thing she can’t see his hands, the spooky finger waggle might be a bit much. 

The woman clearly thinks so anyway; she snaps. Lunges forward, knocking the water flying and grabbing him through the bars. Yanks his jacket until his face crashes into the wood, curls her fingers around his neck and _squeezes._

Whatever she is, it ain’t human. She doesn’t quite crush his windpipe, but he can feel in her barely-controlled strength that she _could_. Dean tries to twist free, can’t.

“Stop lying,” she snarls. Her eyes are green and bright and absolutely _wild._ “Stop fucking lying!”

“God’s honest truth,” Dean croaks and _jesus fuck,_ how he’d laugh if he could breathe. “Look, sweetheart, I don’t know how long you been down here but it’s a real shitshow topside.”

“Yeah,” she shouts, right in his face, “Because it’s a real fucking cake-walk down here!”

Her grip doesn’t let up, but Dean can feel her arm trembling. Her rage makes her look even younger, somehow. Claire’s age, maybe less.

“You! You get to hitch a ride outta here and- and leave the rest of us to crawl through the- the dirt and the _shit--”_

Her voice is fading in and out. Dean gasps for breath, tries desperately to process what she’s raving about, but he can’t, it’s impossible to think, impossible to breathe and then he must pass out because Benny is there, _Benny_ who’s _dead_.

“Em,” the vision says, places a large hand on her deceitfully slim shoulder, and hallucination or not her grip eases.

“I need to know,” she pants, barely glances at the apparition. “I need to fucking know! He’s still human! He doesn’t _belong_ here. But he can pop back in whenever he wants and waltz on back to Earth as he pleases! For the angel-- for a _flower--”_

“Ain’t gonna be no answers if you break his neck, hon,” dream-Benny says, somehow firm and sympathetic at once, and it works, thank fuck, it works and she finally lets go.

“Shit,” she gasps, ragged, like she was the one getting choked. “ _Shit._ Sorry-- I’m sorry- I--”

“Emma,” Benny soothes. “Take a minute. I got this.”

She walks away, arms curled around herself, and Dean’s vision is clearing but Benny is _still right there,_ opening the cell door.

“Benny? That really you?”

“Heya, Dean. Long time, brother.”


	2. Chapter 2

It must be a trick. 

Chuck, or Eve, or some rando leviathan playing pretend, and, shit, Dean _hates_ that that’s become his first thought in any given situation. But Lilith is back, Michael is back, Eve is back. If Chuck can bring back Constance fucking Welch, he can bring back anybody. 

It can’t be a coincidence, it _can’t_ be real.

But real or not, Benny drags Dean to his feet just fine. And when Dean’s numb legs refuse to cooperate with his oxygen starved brain, Benny supports his weight easily.

He feels real, solid and slightly cool like he always did. Smells the same, too, salt and sweat and damp wool. But;

“You’re dead.”

“Most folks here are, Deano,” Benny says, and Dean can hear the smile in the bastard's voice. “C’mon, this way.”

He guides him past the cages, towards the tents in the distance.

“Wait,” Dean grits, tries to organise even a single coherent thought from the chaos bouncing frantically around his head. First things first, “Cas, where’s--”

“Safe,” Benny reassures, quickly. “The angel is safe. I got someone looking after him. Not that anybody here knows nothing about celestials, but the guards were worried when he wouldn't--”

Dean bristles, the angry jolt in his limbs enough momentum to shove away from Benny’s supporting hold. Takes a second to catch his balance without it - his bum leg quivers, but it holds - and every confused half-thought rearranges itself inside his head until the only thing lit up is _anger._

“Yeah, your welcome wagon needs some fuckin’ work,” he snaps. Twists his arms against the rope still biting into his wrists. “And you, man. You got some explaining to do.”

Benny raises his hands placatingly, immediately undermines the gesture by looking more amused than threatened, and _God_ it _feels_ like Benny, the cocky way he tilts his head.

“I will,” he promises. Holds Dean in place with a long, earnest look. _Trust me_ , it says, and Dean wants to, really he does but. _But._ “Vamps honour. But it’s easier if I show you, man. You won’t believe unless you _see._ ”

“Faith, the Lord, and Jesus Christ, huh,” Dean spits. “Not your best argument, Charles Manson. Try again.”

Benny tips his chin down, half nod. Reassesses. Breathes deep, steps forward. Dean doesn’t quite flinch but he does twitch before he can control himself. Benny notices, of course he does, bastard can probably smell the panic oozing from Dean’s pores. 

He raises a pointed eyebrow, gives an amused little huff. But he stops moving.

“The ropes,” he says, slowly, like Dean’s gonna lash out. Hell, Dean isn’t awful sure of himself, either. But whatever is happening here, he won’t say no to having his hands free. 

Dean swallows, braces. Nods.

Benny tugs the knots free, quick, efficient. Hisses out a breath as it falls away, and the numb flesh doesn’t even sting anymore but it must look worse than it feels.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he murmurs, close to Dean’s ear. Takes a minute to rub gently over the raw skin, soothe it with his cool hands. “I didn’t know it was you until they brought the angel over, I swear.” 

Dean doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t. He takes his hands back, checks them over himself, but there’s no broken skin, he’ll heal up fine. 

“C’mon,” Benny says. “Let me show you around.”

And, really, what choice does Dean have but to follow. He reluctantly allows himself to be led into the camp proper.

It’s a simple set up, a circular sprawl of tents, all shapes and sizes, built around the trees like a slum might spring up between skyscrapers and abandoned offices. It has the same feel to it, too. Ramshackle, but somehow homely. Worn, but obviously a close community.

People potter around- No, not people. _Monsters_. But it’s easy to forget, because they’re mostly just doing chores. Chatting. _Living_ , here, of all places, in Death.

A wolf with a full snout gestures animatedly over a water barrel to two more only identifiable by the telltale claws. Human-passing vamps work side by side with grey-skinned Nosferatu’s, and Dean never did learn what made the difference but it sure is a fucking trip to see.

Last time round, Purgatory was simple; kill or be killed. That Dean can handle. This… This he doesn’t know what to do with. Doesn’t know if it’s even real, or another of Chuck’s party tricks, doesn’t know how much to trust in this bizzaro land.

They pass through an open tent - just a canvas-looking sheet tied across three trees to make a roof, some kind of communal area, full and busy. A couple of wraiths are having what looks like an arm-wrestle with added wrist spikes, a humanoid covered in scales everywhere except where their calf gives way to a wooden peg-leg nods respectfully at Benny as they pass. Dean catches sight of what he thinks are changelings, small and pale and dead-eyed, gathered excitedly at the tattooed feet of a djinn telling a story in a language Dean doesn’t recognise.

“What the _fuck,_ ” he says, as they duck out under a flap, back into the open air. It comes out louder than he means it to, a woman with open welts down her face turns to scowl at him.

“It’s bark cloth,” Benny says, without looking at him. “Real clever. The menehune make it down at the river. Crafty little creatures. Shy though, be lucky to see one out in the open.”

“I didn’t mean the goddamn tents, Benny.”

“Folks down here are real tired, Dean,” Benny sighs. “You lived it for a year, running and killing and never stopping. Imagine a decade. A century. Two. _Ten._ ” 

Benny gestures broadly around, at the camp or maybe all of Purgatory, then fixes Dean with a pointed look and the predatory edge of it makes all the hair on his neck tingle something fierce, makes Dean almost believe this is real because nothing has ever pinged his lizard brain the same way Benny does. 

“You had a way out. These people don’t.” He shrugs. “Some of us decided to do something about it.”

“Alright, okay,” Dean concedes, because _okay,_ he gets it. He’s met enough decent monsters by now to buy that they’re not all bloodthirsty and irredeemable. But, “I wasn’t expecting Camp Nightmare, okay?”

“Brother,” Benny sighs. “You know I don’t know what that is.”

“Goosebumps, dude. Didn’t you read topside, c’mon,” Dean retorts automatically and, stupidly, it eases some of the tension coiled around his spine.

Benny makes the face he reserves for the majority of Dean’s witticisms, squints like he’s not sure if he should laugh or not, and it’s so familiar, like--

“Cas. Take me to Cas.”

//

Benny leads him further, towards the middle of the sprawl. In the centre is a wide clearing; fire pit front and centre, log benches like some kind of summer camp. Kumbaya. 

There are a couple of actual rough-cut wood cabins, too, which is more surprising somehow than anything else. It says, clearly, that they’ve been more or less organised for a while down here. It’s vaguely unsettling.

Not as unsettling as when Dean catches sight of a blue-white glimmer above the cabins. A familiar hill sits about 50 yards behind the furthest structure, tiered ledges leading up to a semi-cliff and the wispy flickering ribbon of the portal.

“Is that-- Benny. Is that what I think it is?”

“Sure is,” Benny confirms. Almost looks bashful about it. “I, uh. I figured if you ever turned up down here again, you’d have to come back this way.”

“Oh, you figured, huh,” Dean teases, and honest to fucking god, it’s the first time in months that he’s smiled and actually meant it. 

“Yeah,” Benny smirks, tilts his chin up like a challenge. Maybe it is, kinda. Dean holds his gaze steady, touches the tip of his tongue to the top of his teeth and finds himself grinning back. Fuck, he’s missed Benny. “Figured you couldn’t stay away. C’mon, Hot Wings is waiting.”

Benny leads him over to the biggest of the cabins. There are guards on either side of the door, a hulking woman with scales and what Dean guesses is some breed of shifter, blistered and raw where it's skin peels away. They nod respectfully at Benny, glare daggers at Dean. Let them pass.

The room inside is clearly some kind of medical station - cots and blankets, makeshift bandages piled neatly next to containers of almost clean looking water.

Dean hears Cas before he sees him, “That’s not necessary, really,” and a low voice drawls back, “If you say so.”

Right at the back of the cabin, Cas is sat propped against a wall. He’s pale but awake, functioning enough to bat away the woman hovering over him.

“Drink, at least,” she says, stepping back. 

“Technically speaking, I don’t need to hydrate-- Dean!”

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Dean says, so damn glad to see Cas up and moving that all the frustration from before drains right out of him. “You okay, buddy?”

“Yeah, I-” he looks down and to the side. Embarrassed, if Dean had to guess. “I may have overexerted myself.” 

“What the hell happened? You’ve gone nuclear before, but you’ve never crashed like that after.”

That’s not strictly true, he realises the moment he’s said it. But the last time Cas knocked himself out burning grace was both a decade and 40 years ago - zapping them back in time to stop Anna from offing mom before him and Sam were even born. He’d passed out cold for almost 3 days, but that’d been different, that’d been because--

Cas is watching him, almost waiting for the thought to settle, for the penny to drop. 

Last time Cas crashed like that, he was losing his powers. He was falling.

“We should be cautious,” Cas says, mouth tilted down at the corner. “I likely won’t be able to ‘go nuclear’ again if we’re cornered.”

Dean’s mouth is flapping uselessly when the woman steps back towards them, forces a leathery waterskin into Cas’ hands. She’s pretty in a stern kinda way. Vaguely familiar.

“Drink,” she commands, no room for argument. “And I’ll leave you to your reunion.”

Cas takes a reluctant swig, hands it back but doesn’t let go until he’s looked her right in the eyes.

“Thank you, Lenore. It’s more than I deserve.”

Lenore smiles, a tiny wry thing that comes paired with a twitch of her eyebrow, and heads for the door. Beckons Benny over as she goes, murmurs something to him - _“--aren’t going to like this, Benjamin,”_ \- but Dean isn’t listening, because that haughty little smirk is definitely familiar.

“Wait, _Lenore?_ Veggie Vampire Lenore? Lenore that you-”

“Killed, yes,” Cas hums, considers her from across the cabin. “She doesn’t appear to be holding it against me.”

“Yeah, great,” Dean mutters, but he’s not thinking of Lenore, exactly. He’s thinking that’s one more familiar face, reemerged apropos of nothing; he’s thinking of Lilith and Michael and Eve; he’s thinking of Chuck, and his recent habit of reliving his own greatest hits. 

He needs to know, before they bump into any other guest stars from their back-catalogue. He needs to know, because his gut feeling is to trust Benny, and if this Benny isn’t _his_ Benny, if it’s a trick or a trap then it’s _working,_ and Dean is a liability. 

“Cas, this is real, right? Please tell me this is real and not another of Chuck’s fucked up little games.”

Cas squints around the cabin, looks to the ceiling and considers the axis of the universe or listens to the wavelengths or whatever the hell it is that keeps Cas oriented. 

Agonising minutes tick past, Dean’s fingernails imprinting crescents into his palms. Cas is still contemplating the middle distance when Benny finishes up his hushed conversation - _“Well they aren’t here. I am, and I vouch for ‘em.”_ \- and steps up to Dean’s shoulder.

“Sure you’re alright, Feathers?” he starts to ask, but Dean shushes him and Benny obliges. Waits right there, him and Dean just watching Cas until the angel finally tilts his head towards Dean and nods slowly.

“I… think so,” he says, at length. “I can’t sense him here. Chuck created Purgatory to be self-sufficient. An automatic process, if you will. He has no direct control as far as I can tell.”

“Oh, thank fuck,” Dean says. Swings his arm around a bemused Benny’s shoulders, a belated reunion hug. Squeezes a little tighter in apology even if Benny isn’t gonna know why. “Sorry, brother, but the last time I saw you you were a hallucination and things ain’t got any less complicated since.”

Benny looks at them like they’re talking absolute bullshit, which is fair; they kinda _are,_ but he turns into the hug, makes it a proper one. Crushes Dean against his massive chest, squeezes his shoulder tight before he steps back. It’s grounding like so few things are in Dean’s life right now.

“Glad that’s settled,” Benny says. “Whatever it was.”

“Yes,” Cas frowns. “Apologies, but we _were_ told you were dead.”

“Your old crew, they said--”

“Oh, the Old Man tried, sure,” Benny chuckles. “Andrea has him captive at a camp four days that way. She keeps the others in check.”

“You and her,” Dean starts to ask before his brain kicks in. Stops. Bites down on the little surge of-- whatever.

It shouldn’t matter to him, anyway. So he and Benny helped each other out those long months searching for Cas, rushed hand jobs in quiet corners. It’s not like it was serious. Or exclusive. 

Still, his chest feels slightly less hollow when Benny laughs, even if it is too knowing for Dean’s liking.

“Nah, it ain’t like that. She likes her space, and I’m busy here. We all try to keep up with the big mouths, work together when we need to. Her people heard they were looking for me, and figured they’d lay off a smidge if they thought I was already six feet under.”

“The leviathan did seem organised,” Cas says. He’s not wrong, and Dean is more than happy to move this conversation on to less personal tracks. “More so than before. What changed?”

“Eve,” Benny sighs. “Nobody’d seen her for a real long time. Rumour was she was dead--”

“Oh she was dead alright,” Dean scoffs. “Offed her myself.”

“He’s very proud,” Dean can hear the eye-roll in Cas’ voice even if he can’t see it from where he’s stood. “But it’s true; we destroyed Eve. Years ago.”

“Well she sure didn’t stay _destroyed_.”

Dean and Cas exchange a look - they both know who’s behind this. Mr Hasn’t-had-an-original-idea-in-millenia himself.

“Chuck,” Cas says, and Dean _hmm_ s his agreement.

“Seems like. So what, the dickbag is just bringing back every big bad we ever beat?”

“Seems like,” Cas echoes, at the same time Benny asks, “Wait, who’s Chuck?”

“God,” Dean says, tents his eyebrows in a way he hopes conveys _I know, right_. “Like, _God_ God. It’s a long story, man. But he doesn’t like us much anymore. Wants us dead.”

“ _God_ wants you dead?” Benny laughs, a real belly chuckle and Dean’ll be honest, that’s not a reaction he expected. “You still don’t do things easy, huh, brother.”

“Ah, you know me. Easy is boring. So, Lilith was brought back topside, but Eve is down here?”

“I don’t know about no Lilith, but Eve’s here alright. Not real happy about it, either. Big Momma wants to be on Earth.”

“Yeah,” Dean groans. She had a fuckin’ riot last time, with her frankenstein super-monsters. “I bet she does.”

“And,” Cas says, squints suspiciously at Benny. “You and your kin? You stand against her? Why?” 

It’s a reasonable question. Last time they dealt with her, Eve had every monster on the planet gunning for them on her behalf.

Last time they didn’t have an inside man, though, and Benny doesn’t even flinch at the insinuation in Cas’ tone.

“Guess I ain’t the type for stable parental relationships, huh,” he shrugs. And honestly, _yeah_. They three between them are practically the poster boys for shitty parenting. “Mommy dearest doesn’t need us when she has the leviathan on her shoulder. They want back out, and they told her I know the way.”

Wait. “The VIP human exclusive party floating out there? _That_ way out?”

“Bingo,” Benny says. “Doesn’t seem to matter to her. She wants the Earth, and she’ll go through her own spawn to get there.”

“And the leviathan?”

“Right there with her.”

“Shit,” Dean says. Slides down to sit on the cot with Cas. For however bad Chuck is, Dean can’t process the idea of leviathan _and_ Eve’s super soldiers topside too. And Benny has been dealing with that shit down here by himself. “I’m sorry, Benny. I never should’ve asked you to come back here for Sam. This shouldn’t be your problem, man.”

“You know I didn’t do it for him, Dean,” Benny says, and it’s so soft and honest that Dean can feel the flush up his neck at the unabashed sincerity. He doesn’t know what to do with it.

“I’m afraid,” Cas says gravely, saving Dean from himself. “That we need another favour from you.”

“’Course you do, Feathers,” Benny grins. Spreads his hands. “Figured you didn’t come for a picnic, huh. What d’ya need?”

“A leviathan blossom,” Dean tells him. “For a spell.”

“Never heard of it,” Benny says, slowly. “But I might know someone who has.”

//

They exit the medical cabin, walk three yards to the left and enter a second, slightly smaller one. Dean doesn’t even have time to think _That was easy_ before Benny preempts him.

“Quick stop before we head out,” he explains, gestures the doorway and tilts his head, universal sign for _after you_.

It’s an armoury, which makes sense, but is somehow still not what Dean expected. Stacked to the rafters with some frankly badass looking weapons, cobbled together from bone and wood and cloth. Its;

“Awesome!”

“Thought you’d say that,” Benny drawls, as Dean takes a closer look at a carved bone spear. His grin is almost feral, and that primal part of Dean stirs in response. Shit, he’s missed Benny. Benny is… uncomplicated. Blessedly, refreshingly uncomplicated. “What about you, Hot Wings?”

“I have my blade,” Cas says, shortly. “It’s sufficient.”

“Oh, don’t be like that, Cas,” Benny grins wider. “I’m sure it’s more than _sufficient_.”

Dean tries to hide his laugh, stifles it before it can become more than a sharp exhale but Cas hears it for what it is. The angel’s squint intensifies like it does when he isn’t sure if he’s being mocked, then he clearly decides he is - his lips purse tight, and he throws one last crippling glare at Dean before he turns on his heel and leaves.

Benny watches him all the way out. Then looks back at Dean, archly, and whistles long and low. “Still got that stick lodged deep, huh?”

“Yeah, not really,” Dean puts the spear back. “He’s pissed at me.”

Benny snorts. “You’re kidding me.”

“Fuck you,” Dean counters. 

He tries out an axe type thing; broader head, shorter handle, better mobility close range. Swings it once, twice. Considers the weight and balance in his hand more deliberately than probably necessary, feels Benny’s eyes burning into him the whole time. 

“See you crazy kids are as subtle as ever, Deano. So. What’s his damage?”

It’s probably not Dean’s place to say. Cas’ issues are his own fuckin’ problem. But if Benny is picking up vibes after 20 minutes, he’s sure as shit gonna notice while they go on this magical fetch quest.

“Cas’ daddy had a tantrum,” Dean says. Jumping off of the shitty parents club theme they got going makes for an easy deflection. “Killed his kid.”

It’s a major simplification. Leaves out the tangle of emotions caught up in Mary, in getting her back and losing her all over again, just as things were settling into place. Glosses cleanly over Dean’s involvement in any of it, from his reluctant relationship with Jack right up to pressing that gun to the kids head with full intent to pull the trigger, and neatly sidesteps the noxious mixture of guilt and betrayal and regret and hurt that churns in his stomach whenever he’s close to Cas these days.

 _“Our_ kid,” Dean corrects, and he’s not sure why that’s the stand out here, when he’s already deliberately painting himself in a better light than he deserves, but it feels important to clarify. 

“Sounds rough,” Benny commiserates. “It’s hard to move on from that.”

He’d know. Of course he would; he had a kid, a granddaughter. Dean never asked for details, never filled in those gaps. He feels like an imposter, suddenly. Benny knows what it’s like to lose a child to something beyond your control, like Cas does, and Sam. 

Dean is playing pretend. Dean was gonna shoot Jack his goddamn self. He doesn’t deserve Benny’s sincere sympathy.

“It’s not--” he mutters. Doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. Settles on, “It’s complicated.”

“You and the kid?” Benny asks, a little too knowingly. “Or you and the angel?”

Dean scowls at him in place of an answer. Takes the axe and heads back outside. He’s not in the mood for either of those conversations right now.

He’s not sure where he expected Cas to be sulking, but his money was not on the steps right outside the cabin. He’s sat with hands clasped neatly in his lap, like a camp friggin’ counselor, and just to complete the image; the girl from the cages is talking to him. 

She looks tense and alert, but Cas keeps nodding and she keeps talking. Dean can’t hear what they’re saying, but the girl gesticulates with her whole upper body, looks invested in whatever conversation they’re having. 

She even smiles, almost, a little twitch of her lips at the corner, and the anger floods his system in an instant. Cas won’t fucking talk to him, but this random monster deserves his attention. Fuck that noise. 

Dean steps forward, not even sure what for, it’s pure reflex, and the wood creaks beneath his weight. The girl’s eyes snap up to him immediately, scowl firmly back in place. She gives Cas a few more muttered words, shakes her head once, sharply, and stomps away. 

“Hey, Em, hold up-” Benny steps around Dean, catches her up in a few long strides and walks with her farther out. Dean catches, “We’re gonna head on out--” before they’re completely out of earshot, and it doesn’t even matter because now Cas is scowling at him again.

“Ready to go?” Dean asks him, anyway, because one of them has to be reasonable.

“I don’t know,” Cas snips curtly. “Are you done flirting with the vampire?”

“ _Flirting_?! I’m not the one getting all buddy-buddy with the jailbait, pal,” Dean hits back, and it comes out more accusing and bitter than he means, but so what if he is. Cas can barely look at him, but these strangers are fair game?

Cas sighs at him, nostrils flaring in clear annoyance. “She was apologising. You should try it sometime.”

“She should! She actually has something to apologise _for!_ ”

“It’s protocol,” Cas doesn’t actually say _you fucking idiot,_ but it sits in the air all the same. “They are at war with a race of shapeshifting entities, it’s sensible to check newcomers.”

Yeah, Dean guesses it is. But _still._ “Just don’t go getting too pally with the natives, man. We’re done and gone, remember.”

“She asked my advice,” Cas says, peevishly. “Some people value my opinions.”

Dean doesn’t know why that does it, specifically, Cas is always a bitch when he’s pissed. It’s not new, but all the tension steeped into his bones over the last few hours, weeks, years bubbles up all at once before Dean can swallow it back down.

“So what,” Dean spits. “Jack is dead so you adopt the first kid-shaped thing you find?”

Cas stands, slowly. Emanates that cold, righteous fury he bled from the seams when they first met and Dean isn’t often intimidated by Cas anymore but he's close right now. 

He clenches his jaw to keep his expression as blank as possible, holds his ground while Cas gets all up in his face.

“Someone should,” Cas says, barely restrained fury bursting beneath forced calm, the eye of the storm.

His eyes are burning ice, cold and blue and _blue._ And it’s the last thing Dean registers before Cas’ next words straight up fucking suckerpunch him;

“Probably you, seeing as Emma is _your_ daughter.”


	3. Chapter 3

They hike through the forest; Benny leading the way, Cas close behind him, and Dean dragging his feet at the rear. The chilly silence might as well be the fourth member of their little team, filling the space between them - thick and uncomfortable. 

Dean doesn’t much care, too caught up in his whirring thoughts.

_Emma._ His _daughter_. 

He’s already asked if Cas was sure, three or four times before Cas finally snapped back, “Yes, I’m sure. I rebuilt your body from nothing but atoms and stardust. My powers might be failing but I still recognise your DNA.” 

It might just be believable bullshit, for all Dean knows, but he loses the argument by default because there’s no way for him to clarify without asking Cas, and Cas is blanking him.

Anyway, it’s not like Dean doesn’t remember the whole Amazon thing. It’s not everyday you knock up a one night stand and then almost get assassinated by your super-grown man-hating test tube baby, after all.

But it wasn’t exactly the cosmic grade shit they’ve dealt with pretty much nonstop since, so it’s a faded memory.

Or maybe a repressed one.

That was the year Cas was gone.

And then Bobby was gone, and then Sam was certifiable, and Dean spent it stretching the already frankly ridiculous upper limits of his alcohol tolerance. Everything else is hazy; vague creatures lurking in the dark lake of all Dean’s deeper regrets, memories flashing occasionally like scales catching the light.

It’s not like he never thought of the kid after, either. But Dean at 33 had issues and, 6 months after the whole shitshow with Ben, an Amazon kid he didn’t have any say in creating was the least of them. Back then, he hadn’t even really known purgatory was more than some soul-pocket Crowley had been rifling through for extra juice, honestly hadn’t thought of Emma being anywhere except dead.

Dean at 40 has even _bigger_ issues. Not least of which is that he was by far the shittiest of Jack’s father figures for the last 3 years, up to and including pressing a gun to his head.

He’s not father material, okay.

Playing house with Lisa and Ben made him miserable and paranoid, caused them both unnecessary pain and trauma before he miracled himself from their memories. He fucked up Cas’ chance to reconcile with Claire when he went off the deep end on her creep-ass friend. He hasn’t checked in on Krissy and her little gang in years, even though he promised himself he would. 

He can’t even begin to list the ways he screwed the pooch with Jack.

Emma is better off without him, even here. He got her killed once already, he doesn’t need to add to that. She’s doing okay, he thinks, from the brief snatches he’s seen of her. Benny is clearly watching out for the kid, which raises the question;

“Did you know?” Dean says, and it’s quiet enough out here that his voice carries just fine, but Benny doesn’t respond.

He keeps trudging up the path, sticky with mud and tangled roots, until he reaches an unnatural stack of rocks. A marker.

“This way,” Benny says. He gestures right then steps off the path without pause and, fuck, Dean can feel his temper building in the pressure at his temples.

“Benny,” Dean snaps, and he actually stops. Shoulders drop in resignation before he turns back and meets Dean’s gaze like a death sentence. Dean presses anyway. “Did you know? About Emma.”

“I’m sorry, man,” Benny replies after another pause, and it doesn’t matter how genuine it sounds it’s still a yes.

“Great. That’s just fuckin’. Great.”

“Dean.”

“Don’t fucking _Dean_ me, man. What, you were just gonna keep that to yourself? What the hell, Benny?!”

“It was her call,” Benny says, bleeding conviction. “Her choice. And, man, that girl is stubborn.”

He doesn’t say _like you,_ but it sits in the air regardless. Dean flounders, doesn’t know what to do with it. 

The girl spent, what, three days being indoctrinated by her mother on the evils of men and then had one 10 minute conversation with him before Sam shot her through the heart. 

Anything she is or isn’t, she didn’t get it from him. 

“I think we’re here,” Cas says, derailing Dean’s already stilted thoughts and tilting his chin in the direction of a cave. Dean almost wants to be annoyed, except that he’s so relieved to have a distraction.

Benny holds Dean’s eyes for a minute, some foreboding pin in the conversation, like an ovebearing middle-aged couple at the grocery store, _we’ll discuss this later, dear_ , fuck. Then he steps into the wide, ominous maw and disappears in the darkness.

Cas follows without pause, trenchcoat blending seamlessly with the gloom, and Dean is left stumbling behind - the only one without enhanced vision. 

His day just keeps getting better.

//

Dean hates the dark. 

It’s a stupid thing to admit, even in his own head, because he does a good 80% of his best work in the dark. But it’s not usually so pitch black that he can’t make out his own hands as they grope uselessly in front of him.

He steps carefully on the uneven ground, follows the quiet footsteps ahead. Hopes to Christ there’s only one tunnel here, because the musty smell of dirt and pure monkey-brain instinct that knows he’s underground trigger the panic button in his head, sets every nerve alight with the memory of digging outta his own grave. 

Deep breaths, calm and even, and Dean keeps one hand grazing the rock wall, grounding himself in the now. Forces himself to keep it there even as the cold, dry stone becomes damp and slimy. There are ridges beneath his fingertips, deliberate marks in rhythmic shapes that are easy to focus on, and once his stupid ordinary human eyes begin to adjust Dean can almost make out warding carved into the rock - complicated patterns he doesn’t recognise, spiralling inwards and flaring out again. 

He’s tracing the design with his fingers, following what he can almost-maybe-kinda make out with his eyes, when something in the air shifts and the shadows seem to lighten. He can make out the shape of Benny’s shoulders, the silhouette of Cas’ profile and then, from the deepest corner, a third figure - taller than them both.

“Benjamin,” it greets, deep voice smooth and familiar. Resonating in Dean’s every blood cell. “Dean. Always nice to see the, ah, _one that got away._ So to speak.”

The Alpha Vampire flashes his teeth, a parody of a smile. The glint of fang and the whites of his eyes are the most Dean can make out of him, but the leftover vamp in his blood can _feel_ him.

“Where’s your brother?”

Dean opens his mouth, _fuck you_ poised on the very tip of his tongue, but the Alpha’s eyes, darker than the darkness, narrow at him and the words freeze on his lips. The chill ripples down his body, through his veins, makes his muscles feel heavy and slow. 

“Not here,” Dean’s voice replies, independent of every instinct in his body.

“Pity,” he drawls. “I’d like a word with dear Samuel. He did shoot me, after all.”

“Given the chance, I’m fairly certain he would again,” Cas says from somewhere in front of Dean. 

The Alpha’s eyes cut away from their hold on Dean, but when he speaks it’s not Cas he addresses.

“Benjamin. You know that I respect what you’ve done here. You know that I value your contribution to our people. But _this,_ ” he says, with such depth of contempt that Dean feels it vibrate in his bones. “Bringing a renowned hunter here - a _Winchester,_ no less! And the only angel I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting through consecrated iron bars. This explanation had better be good.”

“Oh, it is,” Benny replies, respectfully. Dean can’t make him out, but he imagines him dipping his head, deferring to Daddy. Or maybe that’s just Dean’s issues colouring his imagination. “Dean here is just the key Eve needs to crack the front gate. We need him gone before she catches wind.”

“So kill him,” Alpha Vamp suggests, and Dean can’t even protest with the lingering thrall in his system holding him still and silent.

“You will not,” Cas growls, the air shifts with a different kind of energy and Dean feels his body ease ever so slightly.

“You need me,” he grits through clenched teeth, and feels three pairs of inhuman eyes trained on him through the pitch darkness. Says it again, for good measure. “You need me.”

“Dean,” Benny warns, too late. Too quiet under the twist of the Alpha’s silken voiced indulgence; 

“Oh? For what, exactly?” 

Dean doesn’t need the little pulse of compulsion to answer honestly.

“To kill God.”

The Alpha Vampire laughs then. Just a breath, really, a surprised burst of air and disbelief, but in the confines of the cave it echoes incriminatingly.

“You _insects_ ,” he scoffs. “Are going to kill God?”

“It’s more of a trap, actually,” Cas replies, offhandedly. “We’re just missing an ingredient.”

“Wait,” the Alpha says, completely ignoring Cas. Takes a long, thoughtful pause during which Dean imagines him rubbing his fingers over his chin maniacally like a freaking Bond villain. “Eve.”

“Uh-huh,” Benny confirms. “Seems like maybe she didn’t just crawl outta hole in the ground after all.”

The Alpha pauses again. Considering or processing or fucking _napping_ , for all Dean can tell. Whatever it is, Dean and his locked, aching jaw wish he’d hurry it up. “Why would--”

“We don’t know,” Cas sighs, annoyance ringing clear in his tone. “God is toying with us. He’s already released spirits and demons from Hell, and reconstructed at least one demon seemingly at random. He probably has his reasons for bringing Eve back, but I can’t imagine what they might be.”

If Lilith is anything to go by, Eve is probably here to complete a menial task Chuck considers beneath him. The hack just likes recycling his plots over thinking up anything new.

Or maybe Eve was his backup plan, should they try to pull the Amara-switchbait on him, and he knows they’d need a leviathan blossom to pull it off? Shit, the only thing Dean knows for sure is that trying to reverse engineer Chuck’s motivations gives him a fucking headache.

“What we do know,” Dean says, whatever magic swimming in his blood wavering just enough for him to speak. “is how to stop him. But we need a leviathan blossom.”

“Hmm,” the Alpha looks at Benny. “And the others approved this little mission?”

“Weren’t available to ask, so I made the call,” Benny says. “If God brought momma back, maybe stopping him’ll stop her too.”

Dean hasn’t a fucking clue if it’ll actually work like that - taking out the Eye of Sauron and hoping the orcs fall in to a conveinient pit seems a bit hopeful-long-shot even for them. But if it gets Big Daddy Vamp on board...

“You almost make it seem logical. I think you just have a pathological soft-spot for Mr. Winchester here. You’re not the first.” he says, the smirk audible. “I know the growths you seek, though _blossom_ is a generous description. They are husks, shells. Flesh, reimagined in death.”

“Not unlike vampires,” Cas says, going for the fuckin' throat. 

“Alright, Feathers, don’t go gettin’ personal,” Benny soothes. “So, what do you say, boss. Can you take us to these husks?”

“I won’t,” the Alpha says, shortly. 

“Wh--” Benny starts, but the Alpha cuts him off.

“It’s not my fight. I won’t help you.”

“You won’t leave your little hidey-hole, you mean,” Dean snaps, feels his own anger surge up his spine, over the binding magic, and lashing out the only way he can. 

The responding echo of the Alpha’s hisses in his blood, faded and dull. But… Beneath it, a chaser of something less defined. Some small, childish thrill of terror that Dean recognises all too well, and he knows his instinct was right. 

“All these pretty, complicated wardings to keep Mommy out. You’re scared of her.”

“She is my maker,” the Vampire replies, cooly. “Do you not also fear your creator, Dean Winchester?”

“Maybe,” Dean spits back. He could mean Chuck, he could mean John. Doesn’t change Dean’s answer. “But I’m not cowering in a fucking cave. I’m out there, doing what I can.”

The forced tension in his muscles tightens like rigor mortis, and for a second Dean actually is afraid, but then it loosens, drops entirely from him like it was never there at all, and his body is his own again. 

“C’mon,” he mutters, grabs out on instinct, gropes blindly for Cas and Benny to tug them from this useless, cryptic asshole. 

But the Alpha stops him again. With words this time, not magic.

“Did you know,” he says, almost casually, but god damn if that voice doesn’t pull Dean’s attention even with the thrall in his bloodstream dissipating. “That God created man to fail? He gave Adam and Eve the garden, and then he handed them their own downfall and told them not to touch.”

Dean has stopped moving. Despite himself, he wants to hear. He can feel Cas and Benny, similarly frozen beside him.

“They did, of course, because He created humans with curiosity and gall. They did as they were designed to do, and He punished them for it. Banished them from paradise so He could see them suffer.

“And suffer they did, but suffering is not the end because God also designed humans to be resilient and resourceful. They had the land, and they had each other. And then they had children; created life of their own. You’ve heard the story of Cain and Abel, I assume?”

Dean snorts. Doesn’t even try to rein it in, gets an elbow in the ribs for his trouble and can’t even tell who from, but Cas answers, gravely, “We’re familiar,” and Dean bites his tongue; better to focus on the exposition and get the fuck outta this dank hole in the ground.

“Of course, Adam and Eve were devastated by their loss. But still they endured, and still Eve birthed new life into God’s world. So God separated them. Cursed Eve to create only twisted imitations of life, cursed her surviving children to be sub-human, to be the first monsters on the Earth. To become the Alphas of every new divergence.

And when Eve’s monstrous children threatened to overrun His precious humans, he banished her here. Abandoned us Alphas to exist on the fringes, if we could. And if we can’t, we spend eternity here. No everlasting Paradise. No eternal Damnation. Just… existence. Forever.”

It’s a neat little story. It even fits with Chuck’s habit of torturing his creations until he’s bored, and then walking away; his habit of shutting whatever he doesn’t like anymore in a dark, dimensional cupboard, out of sight, out of mind. 

But Dean has no idea if it’s true. He has even less idea why it’s relevant right now.

“So help us,” Cas says, quicker on the uptake. “Help us stop him, help us take the world back for all her inhabitants!”

“Hmmm,” the Alpha Vampire hums, long and thoughtful. “An angel asking for my help to overthrow God himself. You are a curious thing, Castiel.”

He stops. Lets the silence stew for long enough that Dean thinks they’re dismissed and takes a shuffling half-step backwards. Then;

“There’s a garden near here that sprouted recently. If you’re lucky, your blossoms will still be in bloom.”

//

There’s no sunlight to speak of in Purgatory, just the off-yellow slivers of sky glimpsed through the canopy cover when the wind blows just right. That hasn’t changed when they emerge from the depths of the cave, it’s still the same dull sepia as ever. It just _feels_ late, somehow.

This ‘garden’ is 20 klicks south by southwest, allegedly. That’s nothing in the vast expanse of Purgatory - a casual evening stroll - but Dean’s personal cloud of sullen silence makes it feel like an eternity away.

He’s angry _._ _Furious_. About so many different things, knotted so tight he can’t even begin to follow the individual threads anymore, just an indecipherable mass, solid and heavy in his chest. Thoughts racing through his head so fast it makes him dizzy, pulse pounding in his throat.

“So,” Benny tries, roughly a mile in. “ _The one that got away_ huh?”

Dean ignores him. Keeps walking, one foot in front of the other; keep breathing, one breath at a time.

“Sure kept that to yourself. Could’a been a titillating bit of campfire conversation right there.”

_Yeah_ , Dean wants to snap. _Like you kept it to yourself that your best attack dog is my fuckin’ daughter._

But if he pops that particular top he won’t be able to stop everything else from spewing up from behind it - Chuck, and Cas, and thinking Benny was dead, and not knowing where Sam and Eileen are, and Jack, and Rowena, and Lee and Ketch and Michael and Adam and Lilith and--

He bites it back down, screws the lid on tighter. 

“Strange,” Benny is saying. “Imagining you as non-human. Even temporary.”

Dean doesn’t know what the hell that means, isn’t sure he wants to. Doesn’t ask, anyway, because he does know bait when he sees it, and he ain’t biting.

“It is… disconcerting,” Cas agrees instead. _Traitor._

“You were there? So what, you heal him?”

“No, I was. Ah. Otherwise occupied. But when Dean was a demon, it was strange to see his soul warped with darkness.”

“Demon, too, huh. You sure get around, cher.”

Any other time, it’d sound like flirting. Any other time, Dean might flirt back. As it is, he swallows it down with the rest. Bites his tongue hard enough to keep from vomiting it out anyway.

“What, not talkin’?” Benny says, all faux-innocence. “Gonna be a real long hike in silence, brother.”

Cas sighs, loud and long-suffering - _fuck_ him! - and, without looking, Dean can picture his mouth tilted down at one side while his whole body moves with the eye-roll. He grinds his teeth, keeps his own piehole shut tight.

“Well,” Cas says. “I, for one, want to know about these _others_ the Alpha mentioned. You aren’t, um, _running the show,_ as it were?”

“Naw. If I’d wanted to boss folks around, I’d’ve taken the Old Man’s offer back on Earth. Or, I dunno; run the nest myself. Doesn't matter. Leading ain’t my bag.”

“Nor mine,” Cas admits, quietly. 

Benny responds too hushed for Dean to hear, and Cas mutters something back just as low. 

It leaves Dean feeling thoroughly pushed aside, which is stupid. It’s his own fault for being a stubborn asshole. 

He leaves them to their gossip, picks up his pace. Breathes deep - one, two, three, four. Stomps onto a tree root harder than necessary, just to hear it snap.

//

They know the second they’re in range. Purgatory ain’t exactly noisy by default, but 200 yards out all sound dies a sudden, shuddering death. 

The trees become bare, white, skeletal things; no leaves to rustle in the breeze, even if the air wasn’t also deathly still. The ground - already the desaturated earthy colour of barren soil - is coated in something like ash, soft and grey and silent beneath their feet. 

The whole atmosphere around them seems to contract as they step from the treeline into a wide, circular clearing. Dean’s entire life has been one long nightmare, but something about this eerie tableau sends a shiver up his spine.

Bones litter the ashen ground - huge deformed skulls and bent, broken limbs too long to be human; gaping jaws brimming with sharp, pointed little teeth; ribcages splayed obscenely wide around twisted, coiled spines - and sprouting in between the ribs and from eye sockets are the awful, grey fleshed blossoms, blooming blood red tongues.

“Ew.”

“Well, it ain’t the prettiest garden, but,” Benny points at the nearest growth with the tip of his weapon. “That what you need?”

“I assume so,” Cas says. Steps forward purposefully-- 

And freezes in place. 

The warding on the floor lights up before Dean can process, before Cas can yell, “Angel trap! Run!” and then they’re surrounded on all sides by grinning leviathan.

Dean swings for one with his axe, clean decapitation, hears the squelch of a second to his right where Benny must do the same. Dean stabs another one in the chest, too close for the proper swing, just to slow it down, make it step back and give him room. 

He feels Benny move at his back, hears him growl as he fights; snatches a glance at Cas who can’t manifest his blade or his grace, but lashes out with his fists instead.

Another shot, another decapitation. But as the levi falls, three more step forwards. He shoves one, slashes at another, sidesteps the third, swings again, but there’s just too many of them.

The heads by Dean’s feet begin to coalesce and reform, shape themselves back into bodies before he can take aim at the next one. A half-formed arm tangles around his foot as he steps into a strike. 

He tumbles. Rolls. Hits out again, but something grabs his shoulders and another knocks the axe from his grip, and then he’s pressed face first into the ashen dirt.

Dean can’t see Benny, but he hears a grunt, a pained breath, and then an all too familiar chuckle.

“Benny-boy. We heard you were dead. Eve wants a word.”

It’s Dean’s voice, but not from him. 

”Dean, Dean, _Dean,_ ” it sing-songs, and then Dean’s own face leans over into his limited view. “You didn’t think you could tell me exactly what you wanted and get away scot-free? You should know better.”

“Always a comfort to see a pretty face,” Dean says, twists his neck as far as it’ll go. “Thought you and your buddies got blasted to Kingdom Come.”

“ _They_ did. I’m a fan of the tried and tested cut-and-run. You know how it is, get outta Dodge before the Death Star blows.”

“Great,” Dean grits out. Strains against the pressure on his back, pressing his ribs deeper into the earth. “You got us. What now?”

“I told you. Eve is gunning for your boy here,” he grins at something Dean can’t see, all teeth, then grips Dean’s hair and twists his head round so that he can see Cas - grounded, now, with blood streaming from his nose, but surrounded by fallen levis, twisting and reforming around him. 

“Then take me,” Cas says, commanding even on his knees. “Leave them, and I’ll come quietly.”

“Cas, no!” Dean chokes, and his mirror-verse version grins impossibly, grotesquely wider.

“Deal,” he says, then pain shoots up Dean’s neck, and the slimy black nothingness engulfs him once again.


	4. Chapter 4

“Dean.”

“Mmm,” Dean groans. 

His head is swimming, floating, drifting. He succumbs to the fog.

“ _Dean_.”

He tries again. Can’t make his jaw work properly - feels like wire, wound through his teeth and barbed down his throat. His eyes are gummed closed.

There’s a throbbing ache across his shoulders, up his spine into his skull and his eyes won’t open. He feels like he’s adrift in the ocean - or worse, in the air - weightless and spinning and lost. He wants off this ride, but if he moves he’s gonna puke. Maybe if he presses himself harder into the soft earth it’ll stop. 

“C’mon, Dean, wake up.” 

That’s Benny, but, wait-- 

“ _Dean_!”

Everything snaps back into place and Dean’s stomach flops for a whole different reason.

_Cas_.

Dean lurches up, spits bile on the ground, and hollers, “Cas!” at the top of his lungs.

It’s a mistake, the greyscape spins around him, warped and nauseating. He retches again, nothing in his stomach to come up but dribbles of acid and regret.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Benny is right there, suddenly, holding him up again. Holding him together. “Take it easy.”

“Cas--”

“They’re long gone, Dean, I’m sorry. He’s not here.”

No, no, no, no no no _no_. He can’t be gone, he can’t-- Dean _can’t_ lose him here again. He _can’t!_

“We need to find him, we- we need t- to--”

“We will,” Benny tells him, gently. “We will. But you need to take a minute first, yeah. Deep breath.”

He takes an exaggerated breath himself, and Dean mimics it. Gets halfway and chokes, coughs through his internals making another desperate bid to become externals. 

Forced to admit that maybe Benny is right, Dean slumps down by the tree and tries to catch his breath. 

In, two, three, four. Out, two three four. Like Sam showed him.

Except it’s. Not. Fucking. Working.

He hiccoughs his way through a few more cycles, before calling it. Rubs a hand over his face - not wet, which is honestly a surprise, and that alone provides the momentum needed to push himself back to his feet.

“We need to look for him,” Dean says, as firmly as he can. Benny tactfully ignores the tremor in his voice, anyway. 

“We will, we-”

“We _find him_ , before anythi--”

And that’s when he notices, another punch to his already aching stomach. 

The blossoms are gone. 

Every last one, ripped from the soil; roots like tentacles, stomped into mush. 

Fuck. _Fuck._

Benny’s hand is a comforting weight on his shoulder, but it’s a raindrop against the tide of despair pulling Dean adrift.

“C’mon,” he offers, in that same gentle, coaxing voice. Like Dean is some fragile thing, poised to shatter. Hell, maybe he is. “We’ll search on the way back to camp, and if we can’t find him, I’ll send a crew out.”

//

They don’t find him. 

They search the clearing top to bottom, but there’s no trail to follow. No footprints, no broken twigs or disturbed bushes, no obvious paths through the brush.

Dean personally turns over every stone, then does every one again until Benny literally pulls him away, because this ain’t Scooby-Doo and clues aren’t just gonna fall from the branches on the merit of how many times he pulls at the leaves.

He knows that, but it still aches in his chest in a way that has nothing to do with his tight, burning lungs. 

It’s a long, fruitless journey back, punctuated only by the meandering searches down every rough-shod off-shoot of the track back through the woods and the weight of Benny’s eyes on him the entire time.

“I don’t get it,” Benny ventures, after a couple hours of resounding silence.

Dean doesn’t slow. Keeps his breathing measured and deliberate, keeps his pace brisk and even, keeps scanning the foliage as he moves, eyes raking the thinning treeline. It almost looks familiar here, they’re probably not too far out from the camp.

His heart sinks further. Chances aren’t high that the levis came this close to a known enemy.

“Last time, you were a man possessed.”

It’s a conversation he knew was inevitable, stalking him through the forest since he got here, dogged and unrelenting. Doesn’t make him any more prepared now that it’s staring him down; wide yawning jaw of accountability, studded with the jagged teeth of every single mistake Dean’s made.

“Regular force of nature,” Benny continues. Almost casual, as if Dean can’t feel him winding up to the punch. “Whirlwind of determination, conviction, and, lord, was it easy to get sucked in. Guess you just have that effect on folk, Dean. You’re this well of emotion so deep that it just seeps on out, into anyone close enough.”

“Man, shut up,” Dean spits. “Cram the pep talk.”

His shoulders are hunched, but he can’t make them relax again. Benny doesn’t mean it that way, he knows he doesn’t, but every word rings the same damn alarm bells as when Dad used to say he was too pretty, too flirty, too sensitive.

Dean’s not crying, but it’s a close fucking thing. Too close, for the guy his dad wanted him to be. He knows he’s not that person, hasn’t been for a long time and never really was to begin with, but he’s been pretending to be so much lately that he pushed everyone away.

Jack, and Sam, and Cas.

_Especially_ Cas. 

Now he’s doing the same thing with Benny.

Benny’s hand is on his arm, suddenly, and Dean realises he’s stopped moving. He holds Benny’s gaze until he can’t any longer. He’s being a dick and he knows it.

“Alright,” Benny says, stops pressing immediately, and how fucking riddiculous is it that the guy respecting Dean’s walls is the exact thing that brings ‘em tumbling down.

“He didn’t get out,” Dean blurts. Swallows, but it’s too late, it’s out there now. “Last time. Cas-- He didn’t get out.”

“When he wasn’t there, after,” Benny says, carefully. “I figured the portal spat him back out this side. You bringing him back here, I figure that prob’ly ain’t true.”

His eyes burn into Dean’s skin, scorch his frayed nerves, but he can’t make himself look up from his own boots pressing into the damp earth.

“He didn’t make it out,” Dean forces out. “Because he didn’t _want_ to get out. Because of shit I said to him, he wanted to do penance. Because of the shit I pulled, he wanted to--”

He can’t say it. He hears the echo in his head; Cas with tears in his eyes and a tremble in his voice, _I’m afraid I might kill myself_. But Dean can’t say it.

“And I have done so much worse, since this whole Chuck thing--” since _before_.

Since _you’re dead to me_ , since _Mary._ Since Cas picked Jack over him, because Dean is a selfish, stupid bastard too cowardly to make a move on Cas but so fucking jealous of anyone else getting close. 

He needs to find Cas so he can apologise. Needs to find him to make them _right_ again.

Dean dredges up the courage to look up, opens his mouth to explain or apologise or maybe just to scream, and finds Benny staring into the middle distance, pupils blown wide and nostrils flaring.

“What is it?” Dean says, alert in a second - packing his bullshit back into the well-worn lockbox of his chest. “What’s wrong?”

“Blood,” Benny growls. Sniffs the air again. “ _Fresh_ blood. Down there.”

And he bolts, leaving Dean to sprint after him up the slope. 

He’s barely crested the hill when he’s hit by the acrid stench of smoke. Benny disappears over the next dip, Dean not even half way before the noise reaches him, too - shouting and crying. One or two voices echoing above the din, calling for order.

When he stumbles down the final hill and gets eyes on the camp, it’s exactly what it sounds like; sheer panic. People scatter everywhere, huddled together in little groups, all headed east. 

Dean heads west. He can’t see Benny anymore, but wherever the danger is has gotta be the best bet. He ducks between trees and trampled remains of tents, passing a group of stragglers struggling through the haze of smoke. 

There are people armed as he gets closer to the epicentre of the shouting. Dean thinks he hears Lenore coordinating by the cabins; tossing weapons at those willing to fight and sending them off in teams of three or four. They seem to be rallying around a short figure in blue, a flash of colour through the murk.

The next bunch hustle past, forcing Dean to twist, sidestep, and that's when he catches sight of the fire. The big communal tent is burning, bright orange against the sepia grey. The big communal tent full of _children_. 

Dean changes direction before he registers the thought. Skids to a stop when the heat hits, flames so bright he almost barrels right into another body.

“Stop,” she snaps, fingers like a vice around his bicep, and it’s Emma, it’s _Emma_ , dirty and sooty and fierce, blonde hair alight in the fire-glow. “There’s a dragon in there.”

“ _What_ ,” Dean snaps, “I thought Sleepaway Camp was friendlies only?”

“What,” Emma echoes, with enough teenage disdain that she could be channeling Claire. “Francesca _is_ friendly. She’s just scared!”

“Francesca? _Really_?” Fuck it, not important. “Okay, sure, whatever. The kids, did they get out?”

“What _kids_?”

“The changeling kids! Did. They. Get. Out?”

She stares at him for long, wasteful seconds, sparks lighting up her eyes hazel like Sammy’s. 

“Yeah,” she murmurs, almost too quiet to hear over the spluttering of the fire. “Yeah, they got out.”

“Good,” he breathes, nods. Takes a gulp of air that burns, fortifying, down his throat. “Okay, okay. We gotta get those flames out before they spread any further. You got water?”

“Hey!” Emma calls, waves over a passing group. “You four, get to medical. Bring as much water as you can carry from the barrels round back.” Then, to Dean, “We need to calm her down, or water won’t get us anywhere.”

Right. The dragon. No biggie.

“Okay, let’s do this,” Dean nods, commits to this stupid fuckin’ plan before he can think better of it, and ducks under the one small corner of the tent that isn’t on fire. Yet.

Emma steps right on it behind him, which is somehow both a surprise and exactly what he’d expect from someone with half his DNA. She hovers by the flap, lifting it to let it air, for all the good the meagre breeze does in the face of a literal firesource having an emotional meltdown.

Dean has no idea if Emma feels the heat like he does, but the further forward he inches, the more he feels the blistering wave on his skin where the hot air is trapped between the collapsed material and the blackened earth. There, curled into a ball and just as scorched as the ground beneath her, is a scaled figure.

“Francesca?”

The figure hunches impossibly smaller.

“Hey, Fran- it alright if I call you Fran? Yeah?” she makes a little whimpering noise, shifts so all the scales on her back flex, flare bright in the cracks. “Okay, great. So, uh. Fran. We- uh. We should probably get outta here, huh?”

Fran doesn’t move. Dean feels like his skin is melting. 

“I, ah. I dunno if you noticed,” another careful step. “But there’s a fire--”

“I know,” she wails. “I started the fire!”

Dean shoots a look back at Emma, face pink with the heat, and she nods. Mouths _by accident_. Dean can work with that.

“Okay, that’s okay. You didn’t mean to, huh?” he forces his voice steady, gentle. The way he knows Sam used to talk Jack down when he was overloaded in the early days, back when Dean was too steeped in whiskey to care. “We can fix it, but first we need to get you out okay? C’mon, come this way.”

The dragon lifts her head, just enough to fix him with her eyes - yellow and slitted, like a cat. 

“It’s my fault,” she croaks, and the pieces slot into place. 

“You were going for the Big Mouths.”

It’s not a question. She nods anyway. Sobs, “I missed,” like they’re not literally sitting in the evidence, and Dean wipes sweat off his brow to cover the eye-roll he can’t quite stop. 

“Okay, it- it’s okay, alright? Nobody is hurt,” god, he hopes that’s true - he didn’t think to ask. “We’re okay, we can fix it.” 

“Really?” she whispers, sitting up a little. The heat emanating from her eases a few degrees. “We can?”

“Yeah, I promise.” he takes a risk, holds his hand out for her. “But we need to put the fire out before we can start repairing the damage, yeah?”

“Y- Yeah,” she says. Looks at his hand, back to his face, and takes it. “Yeah, okay.”

//

Dean gets Fran to a safe distance, talks her through Sam’s stupid breathing exercises while Emma and her buddies douse the flames.

With every calming breath she takes the heat dissipates more, and the bark-cloth quickly stops reigniting. The embers are smouldering within minutes, crisis averted, damage contained to a few dozen tents instead of the whole damn camp.

By the time the smoke clears, the other crisis seems to have been averted, too - the armed groups are milling back towards the centre clearing. 

“Looks like the Levi’s are gone,” Emma says, rubs an exhausted, soot-covered hand across her face. It leaves a dark smudge across her cheek that some latent mothering instinct in Dean wants to wipe away with his thumb. He sticks his hands in his jacket pockets instead. “How you doing, Francesca?”

“Okay,” she says, inhales deep, counts to four. “I’m good,” exhale, two, three, four.

Dean doesn’t realise he’s following along until a weight collides with his back, knocking the breath out of him altogether and giving him a heart attack to fucking match, but it’s Benny, just Benny, wrapping one arm tight around Dean’s chest and patting his shoulder with the other. 

“Wondered where you’d got to,” he says, casual, but he doesn’t let go. Keeps cradling him from behind, arm draped loosely, hand curled firm around Dean’s ribs, and Dean doesn’t stop him.

“What happened?” Dean asks. Stays still, breathes deep. Matches his inhales to the slow, even motion of Benny’s chest instead of Fran’s muttered counting. “Levi’s?”

“Sure was. Bigger raid than usual. Killed the watchmen. Took the prisoner.”

“The leviathan,” Emma scoffs. “We lost four good warriors and half the camp for one big mouth?”

“And a look at the portal, I’d wager.”

“But they know they can’t use it without a human--” she stops. Narrows her eyes at Dean.

Dean doesn’t have the energy to explain. If it wasn’t for Benny’s arm, still slung across his chest, he isn’t sure he’d still be standing.

Benny sighs heavily, a rush of tepid air against Dean’s ear. 

“They ambushed us.”

“They wouldn’t have if you’d waited for backup,” a new voice says, and it snaps Dean back into himself like a rubber band. The thwack a physical jolt through his body, pushing him up and away from the comforting pressure of Benny’s broad chest.

It’s the blue streak from before - a man, no more than 5 foot tall. His skin, dark brown even under the streaks of soot and ash, makes the bright silk shirt pop even more. Somehow, it still looks spotless despite the dribble of blood by the dude's eyebrow.

“You one of these _others_ I've been hearing about?” Dean asks.

“Sanwal,” the guys says. Holds his hand out like this was a scheduled business meeting and not a post-fight coincidence. “Shapeshifter.”

“You choose to look like that,” Dean says, before it occurs to him maybe he shouldn’t insult a guy that clearly has some pull around here.

Sanwal laughs, rich and sincere. “I do. It’s an estimation of my original form, I suppose. Or maybe not, it’s been 73 years! Who keeps track, really. But I do like it when people underestimate the little guy, huh.”

“Sure,” Dean says, because what the fuck else is he supposed to say. 

“C’mon, Fran,” Emma says, quietly coaxes the dragon up and guides her away. Shoots a look at Dean, blink and you’ll miss it, but he’ll be damned if he knows what she means by it.

“So, Benny-bear,” Sanwal says, cheerfully. “You sure kept this to yourself. I know he’s your… _friend._ But tisk tisk.”

“You weren’t here,” Benny shrugs. “Zari neither.”

“Well,” Sanwal smirks. “You can tell her the one key Eve needs to open the portal has been here for days. You can tell her Eve knew about it before we did.”

“Oh, I will. Don’t you worry.”

“Good,” the little guy grins. “I won’t. Come on then, she’ll want to meet the angel too.”

“They took him,” Dean mutters. 

“I’m sorry, you _lost_ the angel?”

“The leviathan took him,” Dean snaps, “Don’t suppose-”

But he cuts himself off. He knows it’s not likely that the group that took Cas brought him right back this way. They’re not that stupid. But even when it’s expected, the confirmation snaps rubber band sharp.

“I’m sorry, no.”

“Sorry,” Benny says, too. Reaches over and pats Dean’s cheek softly. “I didn’t see him either. But they headed north-west. Every one of ‘em. If i were a gambling man, I’d say Eve is thatta way.”

It’s not much, but it’s something. 

Half the camp is already armed and ready. Some folks are limping back, but more are pacing, restless - that distinct predatory gait that Dean knows himself; baying for blood, itching for a fight. That’s good, he can use that.

“Okay,” Dean nods, mind racing. “Okay, how many levi’s does she have? How far--”

“Oh, no, dear boy,” Sanwal chuckles. “It doesn’t work like that. We’re a Council. First, we take council. Come, Benjamin.”

It’s a clear dismissal, if not a cruel one. The guy turns his brightly coloured back on Dean and walks away without another word.

Any other time, it might rankle. But Dean is already too tense, wound up too tight with nowhere to release the pressure. The fuck is he supposed to do while Benny plays Game of Thrones with Cas’ life?

“Hey,” Benny soothes, hand resting on Dean’s shoulder again. Clearly senses the direction of Dean’s thoughts. “Get outta your head. We’ll find him. We’ll find him, but right now you gotta rest.”

His voice is firm, the kind of intonation that runs a tight ship. Benny holds him still until he’s forced to look up, meet his gaze, and the cool, icy blue tells him loud and clear that this is not up for debate. 

“We’ll find him, Dean.”

He doesn’t say _I promise_ , because they both know he can’t.

//

Bobby always said gossip amongst hunters spread quicker than fleas on rats. Turns out, what goes for hunters also goes for the monsters. 

By some silent game of telephone the clearing fills with people. The same unspoken whisper has them salvaging what they can from the scorched area, then they start piling up the damaged remains into one small heap on top of the big, charred tent. 

They seem to crawl from the woodwork, more people than Dean’s seen since he got here. Dean, with nowhere else to be and no desire to find someone to ask what to do, stays where he’s perched against a log and watches them.

The werewolf who guarded the cells is now pacing a perimeter around the clearing, occasionally overlapping with a few others on patrol. Lenore passes out water, bandages up a few of the more serious wounds. 

Fran, still shaky and nervous, keeps well back from where a couple rougarous are building a bonfire. She hands out something that might be jerky, though Christ only knows what it’s made from. Emma walks by every now and again, makes a point of checking in on her between whatever else she’s busy with. 

A djinn with white hair and faded silver tatts makes shadow puppets with his hands, careful to keep the youngsters angled away from the blackened trees they sat beneath hours before. 

Benny had a point when he said these people deserved a little peace. Maybe a fifth are either eldery or children, helping where they can. More than a third are obviously vets - missing limbs; long, deep scars; stiff, uncomfortable movements; the same vacant, dead eyed look Dean’s seen in two dozen seasoned hunters right before they took a stupid risk that got them killed. 

He’s seen that look in his own reflection.

There’s no way to really know anymore how much of that was actually him in the cold, hard light of Chuck’s Winchester-bowl reveal. Did Chuck really want him dead back at the hospital, when Dean was 2 seconds away from walking into the light with Tessa? Or did Chuck pull the strings to make Dad’s deal, to save him? How far into the shitshow did he get bored? When did he stop rooting for them and start actively setting them up to fail? 

Question after question, and not a single one likely to be answered. Doesn’t stop them from swimming endless circles around Dean’s head, though.

Benny’s been gone for hours. Emma has vanished too. Fran and Lenore are lost somewhere in the crowd, now. It leaves Dean sitting on the fringes of this community, leaves him stranded in his own thoughts.

He should find something to do, _anything_ to do, to keep busy. But the adrenaline rush has ebbed and without it his body has turned to stone. He sits, heavy and cold and immovable, and watches these people who aren’t people provide more genuine comfort for each other than a good chunk of the humans he’s known.

It’s a mistake. It makes him think of Cas.

Cas, who cares so much about humanity. More than Dean does. Or-- maybe not _more_ , exactly, but more genuinely; Dean saves people because it makes him feel worth something, like he can maybe make some good come of all the cosmically fucked up deals they’ve made over the years just to keep his meatsack going. If he saves enough people, it might just be worth the cost by the end.

Cas cares about humans even when it costs him everything he has. 

Dean is shaking, he realises all at once. The burning, all-consuming panic of earlier has settled into a simmer, bubbling gently enough to agitate every one of Dean’s most recent shitty choices. 

And they _are_ Dean’s choices, he knows that even if he can’t always admit it. Chuck might’ve put that gun in his hand and pointed it at Jack, but it was Dean who decided the kid was evil before he was even born. Chuck might’ve orchestrated Mary’s second death just to spite his sister, but it was Dean that dumped all the blame squarely at Cas’ feet. 

_You’re dead to me_. 

_Either get on board or walk away._

_Why does that something always seem to be you?_

Dean’s felt absolutely fuckin’ hopeless about the whole G-O-D thing, but it must have been Hell for Cas - his _dad_ killed his _son._

And then Dean made him feel like he wasn’t even welcome at the bunker, the only home Cas had on Earth. He turned his back on Heaven for Dean, over and over again, and Dean couldn’t even keep his petty fucking issues to himself.

He doesn’t want to think Cas is actively suicidal like he was last time they were here. But he hasn’t exactly asked. 

Dean _hasn’t asked_ , so caught up in his own self-inflicted hurt. Too selfish to see the same pain reflected back in the exhausted slope of Cas’ shoulders.

He needs to be alone, suddenly. Needs to retreat. His limbs are still staticy and numb, but they hold well enough for him to stumble from the edge of the camp, to find a quieter corner of the woods for his pity party.

Dean lashes out when he’s cornered. It’s one of his longest standing shitty coping mechanisms, fostered much too early in dirty backroad bars much too seedy for a kid.

Sam learned years ago to navigate the balance, when to ignore Dean’s bullshit and when to call him out on it, mostly. How to chip away gradually until Dean cracks open and spills his guts, then glues the pieces back together.

Cas just always seemed to _know_ what lurked beneath. Seemed to just _get it_ from the minute he walked into that barn in a storm of lightning and power. Cas always saw right through him, and pulled him on it when he thought it was getting out of hand.

Maybe it’s made Dean complacent in his obstinance. Maybe it’s made him a little too comfortable venting his frustrations _at_ Cas instead of _to_ him. It’s a fine line, and Dean’s been trampling all over it for a decade. 

Fuck, he’s a shitty friend.

Cas was probably the safest he’s ever been when he walked away from them. And Dean dragged him back again anyway. Dean brought him back here, where Cas has wanted to stay before.

The wind changes, just enough to rustle the leaves and stir the hair on the back of Dean’s neck. Makes him stop, makes he’s realise how far he’s wandered.

It’s a beautiful little spot.

Something reverent in the filter of the light through the canopy above, some charge in the air that feels almost holy, and Dean had barely processed the impulse before he’s whispering into the hush.

“Cas?”

There’s no answer, of course there isn’t. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but the resounding nothingness splits something open in his chest and all the emotions he’s been keeping boxed up in there seep out.

“Cas, I hope you can hear me,” Dean grasps at the nearest tree just to feel something other than his own bleeding heart. _Fuck._ “That wherever you are it’s not too late.”

_Fuck, fuck_. He hopes it’s not too late. 

He was too late to save Mom. He was too late to fix things with Jack. He can’t be too late with Cas, too, he can’t- he should’ve--

“I should have stopped you. You’re my best friend but I just let you go. ‘Cause that was easier than admitting I was wrong.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

“I-- I---” 

The words clog in his throat, rattle around his vocal chords and make his breath tremble. The trickle has become a torrent, bursting from him in the shake of his lip and the tracks of his tears, his only witness the leaves and his own regrets.

_Fuck_.

Dean hasn’t let himself cry since Mom’s funeral, since he stared into the scorched earth there and let all the ugly come pouring out, because knowing capital G God wants you dead is enough to break anybody and Dean’s been holding himself together with duct tape and alcohol since he was 16. If he let himself fall, he’d never get up again.

But now it’s festered. The bottled emotions, long past their sell-by date, stinking and rotten and _foul,_ turning him into his unfeeling drill-sergeant of a father, pushing everyone away. Pushing _Cas_ away, even though Cas is one of the few people to ever see beyond Dean’s front.

He can’t stop the sobs, now, tearing up his lungs, burning on his cheeks. Dean’s not sure how he ends up on his knees, but it feels right, somehow, to spill his guts in the dirt.

“I don’t know why I get so angry. I just know-- know that it’s always been there and wh- when things go bad it- it just comes out and I can-- I can’t stop it. No matter how bad I want to, I just can’t stop it.”

Anger is appropriate, it’s _allowed_ , it’s _expected_. Anger is safe and comfortable, in all the ways these soft, squishy feelings aren’t. 

But maybe Dean wants them to be.

“And, and I-- I forgive you, _of course_ I forgive you-”

It shouldn’t have taken until now to say it. He could have said it a million times, _should_ have said it a million more.

“I’m sorry it took me so long--” he sniffs. “I’m sorry it took me until now to say it, Cas. I’m so sorry.”

The weight can’t lift, not when he doesn’t even know if Cas is alive to hear him, but saying the words, speaking them into existence, shifts everything around in his chest. Makes it ever so slightly easier to breathe. 

He licks the salt from his lips, takes a slow breath and holds it for as long as he can.

There’s so much he wants to say, desperately. Wants to say it to Cas’s stupid, annoyed, _gorgeous_ face - not now, not like this. 

Instead, he mumbles to his own knees, “Man, I hope-- I hope you hear me,” wishes with everything he has, wills it into being, _fuck._

Dean allows himself another second, prays with all he can, _please, please,_ _please don’t be dead_ , then rubs a hand over his face and starts to piece himself back together one broken shard at a time.

Sam’s breathing exercises don’t help, but he does them anyway. In, two, three, four; out, two, three, four. Drags himself to his feet, two, three, four. Dean wipes the lingering tears from his eyes, turns to head back to camp, and stops dead.

Benny is there.

Leaning casually against a tree, arms folded across his chest and head tilted just so. Watching Dean like some kind of cheap soap opera, and every emotion carefully contained between his ribs explodes into rage at once, propels him forward and he’s stomping across the glade before he consciously decides to move.

Benny tracks his steps without moving. Doesn’t even blink when Dean gets up in his face, grabs his shirt and curls his fist until his knuckles are as white as the dingy fabric. He just keeps on watching him, placid and calm, and it rubs Dean’s raw nerves all kinds of wrong.

“What the _fuck_ , Benny,” Dean spits, vitrol and bile, before Benny completely derails him by saying;

“You know why I looked for you?”

It’s so off-script that Dean stalls out, lips bouncing indecisively while his brain scrambles to process words.

“I dunno,” he bites out, finally. “Because you’re a fuckin’ lurker? Because you can’t tell when a guy needs a fuckin’ minute to himself?!”

“No,” Benny says, his tone the blunt edge of almost-disappointment that Dean isn’t following. “Last time.” 

Dean still can’t see where this is going. Squeezes his fingers even tighter, bloodless and numb and itching to hit something. Benny frowns down at the extra tug, clearly unconcerned by the violence. Hesitates for a second, then reaches up with his own hands and circles Dean’s wrists, too gentle. Not a restraint so much as a reassurance. 

“All of Purgatory was talking about it,” he explains. “ _Dean Winchester is here, not satisfied with killing you once. He’s come to monster heaven, just to get you again_. And they ran. They _all_ ran. But not me. Do you know why?”

Dean’s body is flooded with adrenaline and embarrassment and broiling, impotent fury. The noxious mix churns in his gut, makes him dizzy, makes him nauseous, makes him want to punch or be punched. 

He doesn’t want to know, suddenly. Doesn’t want to follow this meandering conversation to it’s looming, terrifying conclusion.

“Because I saw you,” Benny says, soft enough to wound. “I saw you, through him.”

Nope, no, no.

Dean shakes his head, uncurls his hands and goes to step back. But Benny’s grip doesn’t falter, firm and still weirdly gentle against the fresh, yawning numbness of Dean’s limbs. Benny keeps him rooted where he is, too close, too vulnerable. 

“Even through the leviathan’s control, I could feel you were fundamentally _good._ Because Cas feels it. Knows it with his whole damn heart.” 

Dean might be having a stroke. His pulse hammers in his ears, his stomach churns. He can’t _breathe_.

“And, sweetheart, if you can’t see how much that angel loves you by now, I don’t know what it’ll take.”

His eyes are wet again, cheeks tight and itchy. Benny holds his gaze, blue and earnest, and Dean daren’t even blink. 

“He _loves_ you, Dean.”

The anger dissipates into nothingness. Leaves a hollow in his chest, empty but for the amplified echo of his own heart fluttering, panicked, against his ribs. 

Somehow Benny’s hands are on Dean’s shoulders without any memory of them moving from his wrists. The soothing stroke of his fingers along Dean’s neck, just above his collar, might be the only thing keeping him upright.

“He loves you,” Benny says again, just to make Dean’s face spasm between a grimace and a sob. “He loves you like I do, because you, Dean, you’re this beautiful, bright beacon of humanity.”

“Stop,” Dean croaks, because it’s too much. 

He’s gotten Cas killed more times than should even be possible. He killed Benny with his own fucking hands!

He’s _poison,_ a miserable pile of issues he’s never been strong enough to directly look at, he’s not- not some _beacon_ of anything even remotely good. 

“Dean,” Benny chides, softly. “C’mon, cher, the pity party ain’t helpin’. We’ll find him. We’ll find him and whatever is goin’ on with you two, we can f--”

Dean isn’t sure why he does it. Doesn’t think about it, really, but he can’t handle hearing that he needs to fix it again, he already _knows._

He knows, and he needs Benny to stop talking, and before his brain catches up with his body he’s lunged forward and crushed their mouths together.

It’s not the best kiss of his life. Not the worst, either, but it is possibly the tamest kiss Dean’s had since he was 16. 

Benny pulls back quickly, but he doesn’t go far, presses his forehead to Dean’s and no, that’s not what Dean wants, he needs the bruising angry crash of mouths, not this tenderness.

He’s crying again, properly now; his lips trembling, his breathing coming in erratic gasps, his face salt-crusted and dry. He clutches at Benny’s shoulders like he’s drowning, and maybe he is, a little, but Benny slides his fingers up to cradle Dean’s jaw and his hands are so big and rough and grounding.

“Dean,” Benny starts, but Dean just needs his brain to shut off for five fucking minutes and the only ways he knows how are to fight or to fuck and he’s had enough of fighting.

“Please,” he says, pleading, digging his fingers into the muscle of Benny’s shoulders. “Please, Benny.”

Benny takes pity on him, tilts forwards again and when Dean all but _bites_ at his mouth, he takes it. Nips back - sharp points of his teeth an absolute thrill up Dean’s spine, the pain a balm on his chaotic thoughts - and then he soothes the sting with his tongue.

Kissing’s never been about sex. It’s about the touch, the closeness, the _trust_ \- however temporary. And it’s been so long, now; _years_ since he had the time or the inclination, and he never thought too hard about the why but he knew, he _knew--_

Dean presses into it hard, focusing on the sensation of Benny’s calluses against the soft skin behind his ears to silence the cacophony in his head. It works well enough that he hardly notices Benny take control, slowing everything until it’s just the damp slide of lips, almost hypnotic.

Everything else is blessedly faded under the heated press of Benny’s lips and the cool counterpoint of his hand, his thumb swiping away any lingering tears from Dean’s cheek.

His eyes have slipped closed, he doesn’t know for how long. Everything is blurred and hazy.

“C’mon,” Benny breathes out between sweet kisses, “Rest.”


	5. Chapter 5

Dean drifts back to consciousness slowly, more smoothly than he’s woken in a while.

He doesn’t even remember falling asleep, and that should probably be more worrying, but he’s warm and comfortable, relaxed in a way that his exhausted brain and body conspire not to disrupt too quickly.

Instead, he lies there, brain hazy in a good way. Blinks cautiously to semi-wakefulness, prepared to flinch, but the light that greets him is gentle, orange-pink tinted where it filters dimly through the canvas, and the expected spike of pain through his head never comes. 

It’s almost dreamlike, watching the dust motes float softly to the smooth packed earth, the familiar smell of salt and dirt in the air. Hint of sweat, where they’re pressed together; Benny’s broad chest tight against his back, still fully clothed because Benny is the most gentlemanly vampire pirate Dean’s ever met. 

The solid weight of his arm wrapped loosely across Dean’s waist is grounding the same way his hugs are - firm and protective - but novel, too, the casual intimacy. Last time ‘round, they didn’t exactly have time to rest. Occasionally a cave, if they cleared it out first, provided enough respite for desperate, frantic post-fight rutting and, if they were lucky, switching off on a power nap after. They didn’t have the luxury, then, of this easy softness.

Maybe it’s knowing that Chuck can’t pull his strings here, maybe it’s just that he’s mellowed with age, but he has to admit this is the superior option. It almost feels dirty, to relish in the idea of being protected, to imagine being cherished like something precious. 

Ridiculous. But something of the purifying effect of Purgatory makes it easier to think, in the confines of his own head, at least, that this is _nice_. 

_Could be nicer,_ a traitorous little voice whispers in his head. Makes him acutely aware of the yawning space in front of him where Cas could be, _should_ be, and it kills the moment dead. 

If he were ever to imagine such sappy bullshit, Cas would have to be there. Benny on one side, Cas the other. Dean sandwiched between these terrifyingly powerful creatures and actually feeling safe for once in his life.

It’s stupid. Makes his neck flush, embarrassed with himself. _For_ himself. Jesus.

Mood thoroughly soured, the soft, gentle vibes of the tent are no longer a cozy comfort. It’s stifling, and Dean can’t take it. He has to move, has to-- _something._

Dean shuffles out from Benny’s grip as carefully as he can in a hurry, doesn’t look back to see if he’s succeeded in escaping without waking him up. He’s a shitsack, he knows, but he can’t handle a heart to heart right now. Everything is too raw.

Ducking out into the open brings a welcome breeze to his overheated skin, but little else. The otherworldly hush echoes out here, too. Calm before a storm. 

For how busy the camp was before, it’s practically deserted now. A few stragglers between tents, the guards patrolling back and forth at the perimeter and little else. 

Dean follows the silhouette of the cabins, lit from behind by the blue-white glow of the portal home. Remembers someone saying there were water barrels behind one of ‘em, and he’s thirsty as hell with nothing better to do than to wander while the prying eyes are otherwise occupied.

Not everyone is, of course. He doesn’t even make it past the embers still sparking in the firepit, where Emma is sat deconstructing what might be a spear. She looks feral in the firelight - hair wild and tangled, highlighted in gold; feet bare, plunged ankle deep in the churned up mud around her. 

She looks like a kid raised in a forest. A forest filled with monsters. 

It’s definitely not guilt, thick in his throat, that makes Dean beeline straight for her. 

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” he calls before he gets too close, doesn’t want to startle her when she’s holding a carved bone blade in her extremely capable hands.

She doesn’t react, though, so she probably knew he was there anyway.

“What are you, my dad?” she snipes, dry enough that Dean honestly can’t tell if she’s joking or getting ready to stab him. 

He doesn’t know how to respond. Doesn’t know her well enough to take an educated guess, and it ain’t exactly the place for a wild stab in the dark. She notices his hesitation. Puts down her weapon, twists in her seat. Looks at him through the gloom for a long minute.

“What are you doing up?” she asks, finally. Classic tables-turned situation.

“Water,” he says. Gestures vaguely at the cabins looming behind her.

“You don’t want that swill,” she says. Rummages for a sec, then sets a waterskin on the log by her. “Here.”

And, well. You can lead a Winchester to water, but you can’t make him drink without swallowing his pride.

He does. Takes the drink, perches on the log beside her and gulps down a few mouthfuls. Emma goes back to work, turns the wooden shaft over in her hands, checking for damage if Dean had to guess.

They sit like that, quiet bar the spluttering of the fire, the whisper of her clothes as she shifts her equipment around. It might be peaceful if it wasn’t for, well. Everything.

She wordlessly switches from the shaft to the blade, the wicked sharp edge glinting as she turns it. Dean doesn’t know how to start this conversation, so he waits for her to do it. 

When she does, it’s not what he was expecting.

“Changelings aren’t kids, you know.”

“What,” he scoffs, ready to argue, but then he catches the daggers she’s glaring at him and he hastily rethinks his answer. “Well. All the ones I’ve ever met have been.”

Admittedly, that’s not all that many. Three or four nests, maybe. Always a mother and her brood. Dean’s honestly never thought about where daddy is in this equation, but now it almost seems like a reasonable question. 

“You were gonna save them,” she says, sidestepping the conversation again.

“Kinda what I do,” he says, automatically glib. 

“No, it isn't. You usually kill the monsters, don't you?” 

“That’s not--” but it is. 

It _is,_ and he can’t lie to her face when she looks at him like she’s just waiting to see what flavour bullshit he comes up with. Emma died because of his inability to see shades of grey, and they both know it.

Then, before he can catch his footing, she says, “But not Benny.”

It’s weighted. Not quite a leer, but the impression of one. Dean fights to keep his face blank, glad the firelight will cover his burning ears. She doesn’t give him chance to recover;

“Not the angel, either.”

No, not Benny. Not Cas. 

Not Garth and Bess, not Claire or Alex when they were turned, not Rowena or even Crowley at the end. He’s made a lot of exceptions over the years. But he didn’t for her. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s her turn to look wrongfooted. “I was, uh. I was in a real shitty place when you were born. _Dark_ dark, y’know, and- and I know that doesn’t excuse anything, but--”

“He missed you, you know,” she says right over him. Looks back down, into the embers.

“He should know better,” Dean murmurs.

“Maybe,” Emma nods. “Or maybe he thinks you’re worth it.”

“Look, Emma,” he tries, but she cuts him off again.

“Yeah,” she says, flatly. “You’re sorry. I know.”

There’s silence for an awkward beat.

Emma starts reassembling her spear, lashing bone and wood together with some kind of leather strip in sharp, tight little movements. 

Okay. Traditional route ain’t working, time for a detour.

“I can’t, you know.” 

She tilts her head just enough to raise her eyebrow at him, _what?_

“Hop in and outta here whenever I want.”

“And yet you keep on comin’ back.”

Yeah, okay, fair point. But, “It’s complicated. I know, I _know,_ but it is. Really damn complicated. _Biblical_ complicated. It was a mistake, last time, when I was here. We were zapped here by accident, and when we left I honestly didn’t think I’d ever be back.”

She looks unimpressed. “But you are back.”

“Yeah, it’s-”

“Complicated?” 

“Yeah,” he huffs. Shrugs, because it really fucking is. “An archangel sent us. To get an ingredient for a spell that’ll trap God.”

Emma laughs, then. A bright, joyous thing so out of place in this greyscale deathscape. It almost sounds like Mom’s, the proper belly laugh she had when she was three sheets to the wind. 

“If I’d known you were here…”

Dean trails off, lets it sit. He doesn’t know what he’d have done, honestly. Emma seems to be thinking the same thing, her mouth twists wryly. But it’s not the mean, feral smirk from before. 

Something so small probably shouldn’t feel like a breakthrough, but it does. The silence grows into something almost pleasant.

“So,” she says, when she’s done tying off her weapon. “Benny _and_ the angel? My mom turned you off women that badly, huh?”

Dean resolutely does not swallow his tongue.

“Guess you really did change your tune about non-humans,” Emma laughs.

“Dunno what you mean,” Dean mutters to his hands, but he can feel his lips twitch at the corner despite himself. Playful ribbing is a couple steps up from wanting to stab him through the neck.

“I wasn’t born yesterday, Dean.”

“No,” he retorts. “You’re what, like 8? 9? I’m not talking about this with you, kid.”

“Tell me something else then,” she says, like it’s a challenge. 

And, what the hell. He’s got stories for days and they’ve got time to kill.

“What d’you wanna know?”

“I dunno. Everything. Anything.”

“Well, this one time I killed Hitler.”

//

They talk for long enough that the camp stirs to life around them, bustling and busy, and Dean barely even notices. He tells her about hunting, about Heaven and Hell, demons and angels, and it’s a welcome distraction from his thoughts, gives him an outlet for some of the nervous energy buzzing under his skin. 

Emma, in turn, tells him about the crash-course in human history she got from the Amazons, about fighting her way through existence here until she stumbled into Lenore, and then a crocata name Zari, and then a shifter and a wolf and then Benny and Sanwal and about the many small groups gradually merging into this sprawling one. 

Not exactly a heartwarming tale, but it makes Dean feel better all the same. If he can make comfortable small-talk with this near-stranger who’s been plotting his murder for 8 years, fixing things with his best friend in the world who he’s maybe a little bit in love with almost sounds easy. 

Almost.

Benny finds them there, by the smoulders of the fire, Dean in the middle of explaining time travel via movie references Emma doesn’t get. Sanwal and his bright blue shirt trail behind, too.

“Emma,” he says cheerfully. “Mind if we borrow Dean here?”

“Sure,” she says. Grabs her spear and stands.

“They’re waiting on you, when you’re ready,” Benny tells her, gently. “See you on the flip side?”

“You know it,” she grins that wild grin. “Dean can finish explaining what a delorean is when we get back.”

She nods at him before she goes, and it feels like progress. 

Dean waves her off before he asks Benny, quietly, “Where’s she going?”

“Battle stations,” Benny tells him. “Em is on escort duty. Anybody who can’t fight will hole up in the Alpha’s cave.”

“Warded from Eve,” Dean remembers. “You think she’ll come this far in?”

“Plan kinda hinges on it,” Benny shrugs. “They’re gonna lure ‘em in and surround ‘em.”

“ _They?_ ”

“Ah, yes,” Sanwal nods. “Zari, Andrea and myself.”

Dean looks to Benny for confirmation, “Where’s that leave us, man? If Cas is with Eve, we gotta--”

“Eve needs you to unlock the portal,” Benny says, softly. “We can’t stay here.”

“No. _No_. Cas--”

“Besides,” Sanwal smirks, eyebrow raised importantly. “I might have a different lead on your angel.”

Dean is gonna punch him. Right in the fucking face. 

Benny must sense the urge rush through his bloodstream; he grips Dean’s shoulders tight, keeps him from raising his fists. “What lead?”

“An outpost. About 17 klicks south-west. Scouts came back in a half hour ago, say they saw a man with dark hair and a trenchcoat being held there.”

“Great,” Dean bites. Way to withhold the payload. “Benny, lets go.”

“You know this is probably a trap,” Benny says, and it’s not a question.

He doesn’t look surprised when Dean shrugs. “Yeah. But it’s Cas.”

“S’ long as we’re on the same page,” he nods.

“You can’t come back,” Sanwal calls as they turn away, and Dean really wants to punch him. “Whatever you find out there. You can’t come back ‘til it’s over.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Won’t be a problem, trust me.”


	6. Chapter 6

After the bustle of the camp, the quiet of the woods is unsettling. Purgatory always had an edge, but this is charged differently. 

Benny doesn’t make small-talk, which Dean has always appreciated, but he doesn’t even whistle and it’s a long, tense hike without it. They stalk through the trees like they used to before they really knew one another, back to back and dead silent. 

For all the anticipation buzzing through Dean’s every nerve, they don’t spot a single body anywhere, alive or dead or anywhere in between. No scouts, no guards, nobody taking a friggin’ piss. 

When they finally reach the small clearing, they can see why. It’s a warzone. Packed earth fortifications with chunks missing; lashed fences blown to splinters; splatters of inky leviathan gore smeared across the ground; and, there, in the centre, face down in the charred dirt-- Cas!

Dean moves forward on pure instinct - trap or not, it’s _Cas_ \- but Benny grabs him hard, holds him still.

“Whoa, careful,” he murmurs. 

They stand in silence for a second and just watch, but the prone figure doesn’t move an inch. Dean is physically itching with the need to check if he’s breathing - his fingers flex irritably on the bone handle of his axe, heavy in his hand.

“You go,” Benny whispers. “I’ll circle round. Be careful, cher.”

A deep breath to steel himself, and Dean approaches as quietly as he can. There doesn’t seem to be anybody else around, but this is still probably a trap.

It definitely looks like Cas, slack face pressed into the dirt. His eyes are closed, and he doesn’t stir as Dean inches forward.

“Cas?” he hisses.

No response. Another step, crouches to get near enough to touch. He’s covered in goo, but he’s solid, warm and _alive._

“Cas,” Dean carefully drops his weapon, well within reach, and shakes him by the shoulders. “C’mon, c’mon. Cas, buddy, wake up.”

He stirs, thank fuck, he _moves_. Grunts like he’s actually just a guy pushing 45 and not a celestial wavelength, and Dean is trying to be cautious here, but it’s still the best sound he’s ever heard.

“Hey, that’s it,” he steps back, careful. “Rise and shine, pal, you with me?”

“I… think so,” Cas says. Sits up, slowly. Wobbles, so Dean leans in again holds him up by the biceps. “What happened?”

“Kinda hoping you could tell me,” Dean half-laughs. Scan the edge of the clearing for any sign of Benny, but there’s nothing yet. “Are you okay, Cas?”

“I think so,” he repeats, slowly. “What-- oh. The leviathans.”

“Yeah, you gave yourself up, remember? Which was real fuckin’ dumb, for the record.”

“Sorry,” he says. Rubs a hand over his face and looks so pathetic Dean helps pull him up on his feet. Keeps hold of his arms to keep him steady.

“What happened?” Dean asks again. Gestures broadly at the destruction. “You do this, man?”

“Yes,” Cas says, but it comes out like a question. He blinks around the wreck, looking dazed and uncertain. “I must have, I--”

“I thought you couldn’t handle the force blasts anymore?” Dean presses. 

Cas sighs, and Dean almost feels bad for grilling him. Almost.

“It was a calculated risk.”

“Calculated? You could have burnt out your grace, Cas! You could’ve _died_!”

“Well,” he says. 

Looks trite, eyes downcast. Reaches up to curl his fingers around Dean’s elbows, too, completing the circuit. 

Then he looks him right in the face, shrugs, and goes for the throat.

“I’m already dead to you, right? Might as well make it official.”

“ _What_ -” Dean starts, but Cas - _not Cas, shit, it’s_ not _Cas_ \- grips his forearms painfully tight, holding him where he is - hunched over awkwardly and with both arms trapped. His axe lays useless by his knee. 

“I don't have much to live for anyway,” Not-Cas simpers, so close Dean can feel his breath, hot on his face. “Kid’s dead. You think I’m a fuck up. And even if you didn’t, s’not like there’s room in your bed for an angel _and_ a vampire, is there?” 

He leans in impossibly closer, lips almost touching Dean’s cheek. He feels sick, his skin crawling, but he can’t move. Then the thing grins, wide and malicious and most definitely _not Cas._

“Too bad he doesn’t know you’re into that sorta thing,” it mocks, and it all clicks into place.

“You.”

“Me,” it says, way too many teeth the centerpoint of its face, which melts and reforms into freckles and scorn. “Or _you_ , I guess.”

Dean frantically scans the trees, but still no Benny, fuck. He yanks his arm back towards himself, hard, and this time his doppelganger lets him fall halfway to the floor before it follows. Crouches down over him, keeps the space to a minimum, keeps Dean’s arms locked with it’s own.

He digs his nails into its arms, tries to shove it away, but it just lets him claw at it. On a human, it’d draw blood; on the leviathan, it’s more like splitting putty. Plastic and lifeless.

It smiles, all teeth. Leans right in and speaks directly over Dean’s ear.

“He loves you, you know. Loves you like he was supposed to love God. Only _dirtier_. You really thought you could get your filthy human cooties on him, teach him carnal sin, and expected him not to imprint on you like a baby duck?”

Dean’s gonna be puke.

“Fuck you,” he spits, instead. Twists away, but doesn’t get far. “Where is he?”

“No idea,” it says, gleefully. “Slipped his bonds, blew the joint and ran. Doesn’t matter, you make a pretty consolation prize, Deano.”

It morphs back into dark hair and blue eyes, laugh lines Dean’s never seen this close up. Grins a grin wider than anything Cas ever has, and leans in to lick slimy and cold across Dean’s cheekbone. Ugh.

“I knew you were stupid, but even I gotta admit I’m surprised you were stupid enough to come alone.”

And then, before anything else moves, it’s head explodes in a citrus-fresh blast of gloop and it’s body recoils enough for Dean to scramble away.

“He ain’t stupid,” Benny says, dragging the body backwards and bringing his blade down hard on the half-formed mess of it’s neck.

Then, from across the clearing, Cas’ voice, “And he isn’t alone.”

//

They leave the body there in the ashes, and hurry the fuck outta dodge. 

The head they take - wrapped in it’s own shirt, gagged and bagged - as far as the river, and then Benny tosses it into the rapids and watches it wash downstream. It probably won’t keep the mouthy fucker from reforming, but it should buy them enough time to get back to the portal without any more ambushes and that’s good enough for Dean.

Not that they can rush back, not knowing if Eve broke through or not. Another few hundred yards down the bank there’s an overhang and with nowhere else to go, the space between the rocks makes for a good hidey hole while they catch their breath.

Cas shouldn’t technically need to breathe but he’s panting anyway, cradling his side like his ribs are bruised - or worse. He slumps against the rockwall, looking exhausted and filthy and worryingly human.

“Cas?” Dean ventures, but then stalls out. 

Everything he’s been waiting to say funnels up at once, gets clogged in his throat like it always does. Cas looks at him expectantly, though, and he can’t say nothing.

“So, uh. How’d you make the great escape?”

“Well, I didn’t dig my way out,” he huffs. Smiles; a fleeting, fragile little thing. “But I did find this as I was leaving.”

And he manifests one of the twisted, bloody leviathan blossoms from his coat.

“It’s a little smushed.”

Unbelievable.

With everything else going down, Dean’d kinda forgotten what they were even here for. Of course Cas hadn’t, of course he hadn’t, he’s a strategist. He’s- He’s--

“That-- You- You’re amazing, Cas,” he blurts, and it’s not what he meant to say, but fuck, he _is_. 

Cas is amazing, so fucking amazing, and he’s here and alive and with exactly the thing they need and it’s perfect. 

Almost _too_ perfect. 

Dean’s words jumble with his thoughts, and he doesn’t mean to say it out loud but he hears his own voice say, “You sure that’s really you, man, ‘cause this is too good to be true.”

Cas’ chin tilts up, jaw set defiantly, as if to say _really?_

“I didn’t--” Dean starts backtracking immediately, but Cas cuts him off with a long, loud sigh through his nose.

He rolls his eyes, drops the grotesque fleshy blossom back into his left pocket, then swaps hands and reaches for the right. Pulls out one of the borax shells he packed earlier, and pops the cap off with his thumb.

And then, never once looking away from Dean’s eyes, he fucking downs it like it’s scotch. 

Nothing happens. 

After a second, Cas raises his eyebrows; _see_.

Benny laughs, “Well, guess that settles that,” and Dean’s stomach damn near swoops with the rush of joy that crashes into him, and the force of it pushes him forward and he’s crushing his ribs into Cas’ before he knows it.

Cas sinks into it just as much, all but falls against Dean and that should probably be more alarming but Dean is too caught up in the warm, solid, _real_ press of Cas’ weight, and he doesn’t want to let him go.

He leans back enough to meet Cas’ eyes; bright, captivating blue like the sky here wishes it was. Keeps his hands on Cas’ shoulders just to make sure he can’t vanish again.

“Cas,” he says. Screws up every flimsy scrap of his courage. “I need to say something”

“You don’t need to say it,” Cas says. That tone he’s mastered, the one that says _I hear you_ but also _now’s not the time._ He cuts his eyes to Benny over Dean’s shoulder, then looks earnestly back at Dean again. “I heard your prayer.”

And. Okay. But;

“No, that’s-” If he doesn’t speak up now, he never will. “That’s not what I was gonna say, man, just. Cas, listen--”

“Dean,” Cas says, and it’s a small, pleading sound Dean barely recognises. “Please. I _can’t_ , I…”

He shakes his head. Trails off. Visibly swallows his words, and Dean’s own discomfort is curdling in his chest, heavy and bitter. Dean clings to him, anyway; can’t make his hands let go while his brain is spiralling. 

Maybe he did read this whole thing wrong, maybe he always has, but he was so sure it was mutual, was damn near _certain._ Cas didn’t say he _doesn't,_ he said he _can't,_ and maybe Dean is just clutching at straws, but it feels significant all the same. 

It’s been wrong-time-wrong-place for the last couple years at least, it’s always been an unspoken agreement of _when we’re safe_ , _when we’re done_. They ain’t done yet, but when your Big Bad is capital-G God there’s no guarantees they’ll ever be safe and free. Here, in a dimension Chuck all but locked himself out of, might be the closest they ever get.

Dean is still frozen in place, lost in trying to read whatever thoughts Cas is broadcasting in the desperate lines of his face and failing, when Benny presses against his back, solid and reassuring, and makes the decision for him. 

He leans around Dean’s arm enough that he can see them both without turning. Runs his hand firmly down Dean’s shoulder, elbow, wrist, then links their fingers and lifts their hands as one to cup Cas’ neck.

“If he won’t hear it,” Benny murmurs, the rumble reverberating right up Dean’s spine. “How ‘bout you show him instead?” 

Something like fear flashes in Cas’ eyes, gone before Dean can pin it down. He looks tentatively between them - Dean to Benny and back to Dean - then swallows, straightens his shoulders and tilts his chin in the tiniest of nods.

Benny doesn’t hesitate; pulls Cas in by the jaw, guides Dean forward with the broad press of his chest and neither of them resist him. 

If there’s one thing Dean is good at, one thing he doesn’t overthink, it’s kissing. Kissing always came easy. It’s even easier with Cas, who gasps ever so slightly at the first brush of Dean’s lips, and it makes his mouth soft and welcoming. 

It’s a tentative little thing, the hint of lemon-fresh lingering on Cas’ lips. Dean holds it for a second, then pulls back enough to press their foreheads together. 

“You taste like detergent, dude.”

“Apologies,” he breathes, then he grabs Dean’s face and pulls him in again and Dean doesn’t care about the taste.

Once he’s committed, Cas falls into it hard. Closes his eyes and pushes back, licks up into Dean’s mouth, _holy shit_ , and his determined, scrunched eyebrows are the last thing Dean sees before his own eyes flutter shut too.

He’s thought about kissing Cas more times than he’d like to admit over their years together, and never once did Dean imagine it like this, ducked out of sight in Purgatory with Benny’s thick arm wrapped around his waist and the bubbling of the river all but drowned out by the soft little hum Cas makes, but Jesus Christ, he should have.

Benny nuzzles his neck, his scruff tickling the sensitive skin, and Dean guides Cas to tilt the other way, give him more room. Benny takes the hint, licks a stripe up behind Dean’s ear. Swipes it away with the pads of his fingers, and strokes down his jaw to the soft spot under his chin then skips over to caress Cas’ cheek too.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs. Curls his fingers into Cas’ dark hair. “Mind if I cut in?”

Dean sucks one last kiss into Cas’ plush lower lip, leans back in time to see Cas squint at Benny. Slides his own hand up to cup the other side of Cas’ jaw, sandpaper stubble makes his skin tingle. 

Or maybe that’s the thought of watching these two together.

“Go on, Cas,” Dean prompts. “Show me.”

Cas licks his lips, still damp from Dean’s mouth, lifts his chin in the same defiant way as before and yeah, that’s a fucking challenge if Dean ever saw one. Benny smirks, and takes it.

They kiss like they’re waging war, a crush of tongue and teeth, charged with an edge of potential violence, and Dean is captivated. Either one of these men could kill him, and knowing with complete certainty that they won’t shouldn’t be a turn-on but, holy shit, it _is._

He’s crushed between them in the best way, pinned while they bite at each other, and his dick chubs up against his fly. His hips grind forward on pure instinct, but Cas pulls back, hisses in a decidedly non-sexy way.

“Shit, sorry, your ribs.”

“Don’t worry, angel, we’ll be gentle,” Benny promises, pulls Dean back into his own crotch and, yeah, that works. “You think he likes to watch, cher?”

Cas sags against the rock, still close but not squashing his chest anymore. His hands sit almost chaste on Dean’s collarbones, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch. 

Benny’s thick fingers slide down Dean’s sides, tug his jacket back out of the way. Stop at the hem of his shirt, lifting it just enough to feel the breeze tickle his stomach, just enough to flash his waistband.

Dean watches Cas track the movement, pupils blown wide, and the swoop in his stomach has absolutely nothing to do with the air on his skin.

“Yeah,” he says. Leans back into Benny, guides his hands to his fly and lets him take the hint. “Yeah, I think he does.”

“Whatd’ya say we give him something to watch then, huh,” Benny teases. Pops the button of Dean’s jeans and slides his fingers down the lines of his hips.

Cas swallows hard, seems beyond words, almost, but he doesn’t look away as Benny dips his fingertips into Dean’s boxers to tease his cock. The first, cool touch of Benny’s skin on the hot flesh of his dick is always a thrill, but it’s even better this time because Dean’s sharp inhale is matched by Cas’.

“C’mon, Cas,” Dean says. Pulls his frozen hands down to his chest proper, to where his nipples are peaked, sensitive through the rough cotton. “You can touch, c’mon, c’mon.”

He does, zero to sixty in an instant, pinching and pulling like all he needed was the permission. Dean’s neck is burning hot, the flush rushing up his body. Fuck.

Benny jerks him off just how he likes, firm and slow and twists at the tip. Nips at Dean’s neck, and presses his own hardness to the small of Dean’s back. It’s a tease, just enough pressure to feel the potential of his smooth, silky cock sliding down the cleft of his ass if it weren’t for all the clothes they’re still wearing. 

A promise of more, another time, maybe. Just the thought is enough to make Dean flush hot up his chest, makes his nipples even more sensitive. 

Cas twists just right, pulls a wretched little groan from him, and Dean has to pull him in for another kiss just to keep himself quiet.

He loses time between Benny’s hand on his dick and Cas’ on his chest, could spend an eternity lost in the counterpoints of Cas’ warm, chapped lips and Benny’s cool, sharp teeth. 

Somewhere, somehow, Benny has twisted them so that he’s the one wedged in the middle - he kisses Cas’ when Dean breaks for air, for a desperate gulp of oxygen. 

Dean reaches for Benny’s cock, thick and heavy, and squeezes hard when Benny pinches the tip of his own. He lets go, then, but Dean doesn’t have time to complain when Benny tugs Cas’ fingers lower and wraps them around Dean.

“That’s it, angel,” he murmurs. “Little tighter, yeah, like that, he likes it just like that.”

Cas’ hands are rough in different places, smoother along his palm, and it’s only a handjob, rough and quick and fuelled at least partly by panic-adrenaline, but Dean is suddenly on the edge because it’s _Cas_ and he’s wanted this for so fucking long, _shit._

“Fuck, _fuck_.”

The climax hits quick, he moans into Cas’ mouth. His hand must slow as his brain whites out, but Benny grabs Dean’s fingers, holds them in place and ruts into their connected hands. 

Dean feels Benny’s cock twitch, pulls him in for a sloppy, open mouthed kiss just to swallow his groan, too. Cas nuzzles the sensitive spot behind his ear and tucks his spent dick back into his jeans like a real fuckin’ gentleman, and Dean needs to return the favour, needs to make Cas feel this good too.

“You, too, Cas, you gotta let me,” Dean is mumbling, and it doesn’t sound right out loud but he knows what he means in his head. 

Easier to show them; he drops to his knees in the soft, damp earth and reaches for the button on Cas’ slacks.

“Please. Let me.”

Cas licks his lips, breathes, “Yes, yes, please-” and his fumbles at his fly, too, fingers tangling with Dean’s, and it’s Benny who gets there first, slides round to nestle into Cas’ good side, and pulls his’ gorgeous, long cock out into the air.

Dean can’t wait to get his mouth on it, _doesn’t_ wait, just grabs the sharp spur of Cas’ hipbone for balance and wraps his lips light around the pretty pink head.

Cas stares down at him in what can only be described as rapturous, wide-eyed wonder. His lips bounce, wordless, as Dean runs his tongue side to side over the ridge of Cas’ dick, and neither of them can speak so Benny fills the hush. 

“Oh, you want it don’t you sweetheart,” Benny says, pushing his fingers through Dean’s hair and tugging, and Christ, if he were younger he’d be hard again by now. 

He looks up at the both of them through his lashes, knows he looks good doing it. Keeps his lips sealed tight and hums his confirmation. Cas is biting his lip so hard it’s gone white, pale against his flushed dark cheeks. 

“You see how much he wants it, angel? You gonna give it to him?”

Cas’ jaw clenches, he manages a jerky little nod. Strokes his shaky fingers down Dean’s cheek, holds them there in the hollow where he must feel himself. 

Dean lets him, just for a moment, then pulls back slow. Kisses his head nice and sloppy, and sucks him back in and in and _in_ and Cas snatches his hand back to clap over his own mouth just before he comes.

For all his good intentions, Dean is out of practise - he doesn’t swallow quick enough, coughs and pulls off and somewhere in the sputtering he finds himself laughing a little, too. Everything feels easier with the rush of endorphins in his blood. 

“Yeah, that’s it,” Benny coos, pets softly at Dean’s hair while he gets his giddy nerves back under control. “You still with us, hot-wings?”

“Yeah,” Cas breathes. Looks stunned by the revelation. “Yeah, I’m. I’m still here.”

Dean sits back on his heels, breathing evening out. Wipes at his chin, wipes at his watery eyes.

“You okay down there, cher?”

And, no. He’s not. Can’t ever be okay with Chuck out there, and Sam a whole dimension away, and no idea if Mike will pull through with their exit strategy or anything that’ll come after.

But. 

Looking up at two pairs of stunningly blue eyes watching him like he’s worth their attention, and with the buzz still fresh under his skin where their hands held him moments ago... Dean feels, for the first time in a long, long time, that he could be.


	7. Chapter 7

They take the long way back. Circle wide and take it slow, avoiding the camp.

Though the tension between them has eased, they’re still cautious and quiet. Benny takes point, guides them down barely-visible paths. Dean takes the rear but sticks close to Cas, who’s still limping a little even if he won’t admit it. 

Dean feels- not _positive,_ exactly, but maybe a little less negative than he has been lately. They have Cas back and mostly in one piece; they have what they need for Mike’s spell; and, if all went to plan on the part of Benny’s buddies, they have a way back to Earth. All things considered, it’s been a damn good day.

Even the journey through the woods could almost be a pleasant afternoon meander, if they weren’t still potentially in enemy territory. Nothing jumps out at them, though, and they neither see nor hear anything else the entire way back. 

The first noise they hear is a rustle of leaves as they approach the waystone for the Alpha’s cave, a single lookout - a young looking boy with tan skin and blond hair that Dean might have seen with Emma after the fire - pokes his head around the stack. 

Benny signals for Dean and Cas to stay put, approaches the kid cautiously and talks to him in hushed whispers. They watch him for a minute before Cas turns towards Dean.

“We should leave as soon as possible,” he murmurs. 

“Yeah, man, we will,” Dean replies. “Right after we check in on Benny’s people, we--”

“The best way to help these creatures is by stopping Chuck,” Cas emphasises. “This isn’t our fight, we can’t get distracted.”

“Yeah,” Dean says again. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

He does know. It’s easy to lose track of time in the perpetual dusk of Purgatory, days blur under the monotonous sky and Dean honestly couldn’t say how long they’ve been here. Who knows what Chuck is up to out there, and they left Sammy and Eileen to deal with it alone.

“We will, we’ll haul ass,” Dean promises. “But, I just. I wanted to check on Emma.”

Cas looks surprised. Surprised enough for it to show on his face, and Dean can’t blame him but it stings all the same. 

He fucked up with Jack, he knows he did. And he fucked things up with Emma way back when, but here she is again. A second chance, like finding Benny here, like finding Cas alive when it really looked like he’d never see either of them ever again.

Maybe that’s what purgatory is, a second chance. 

Dean sure as hell doesn’t want to waste it. If he can say goodbye to his kid properly, for once, he damn well will.

Cas smooth’s his eyebrows out quickly. Offers Dean a small smile and almost sounds earnest when he says;

“Yeah. We can do that.”

Dean appreciates the effort, appreciates that it must be real fuckin’ awkward for Cas so soon after watching Jack burn out, but before he can think of anything to say, Benny rejoins them.

“Kid says they’re still holed up safe with the Alpha,” he tells them. “Emma headed down to camp a little while back.”

//

They probably shouldn’t risk it, but none of them are exactly the sitting-it-out type. Given the choice between possible capture, torture and painful death or sitting in a cave hiding, it’s no contest.

As it turns out, torment and certain doom can wait for another day. Sanwal’s plan, whatever it was, seems to have worked. Eve is nowhere in sight, and most of the camp is still intact, if unsettlingly deserted. 

Lenore is patching up a few guards, but they look like minor wounds. Minor enough that she shoos the patients away when she spots them.

“Castiel,” she greets, like Dean and Benny aren’t even there. “You almost had me worried that I wasted my time cleaning you up.”

“Apologies,” he says, seriously. “Your efforts remain unwasted.”

“Good,” she nods. “Do me a favour and keep it that way. And you two, I suppose.”

“Was plannin’ on it,” Benny grins.

“Gee, thanks,” Dean rolls his eyes. Tries not to bristle at whatever weird understanding these two seem to have developed while he wasn’t looking. “Hey, you seen Emma anywhere?”

“Sure,” Lenore says, slowly. Narrows her eyes at him suspiciously for a long second, assessing. “She’s inside, with Sanwal.”

“Good,” Benny says.

He steps forward, and Dean’s mostly turned too, when Lenore stops Benny with a hand on the arm. They share a long, loaded look that Dean can’t read, and then she nods. Lets him go with one last pat of her hand and a sharp little smile and that’s that, whatever it was.

“C’mon,” Benny says, and leads them towards the third cabin, the one tucked at the back, closest to the cliff. 

It’s the only cabin with a window - a high slit across the top, through which the flickering light of the portal above shines, illuminating a huge, hand-drawn map laid out on the floor and giving the room an eerie blue glow. 

“Well this would’ve been useful earlier,” Dean mutters. There are braided circles placed all across the sketched landscape, different sizes and colours, like one of Charlie's LARP setups. Markers; Eve’s camps if he had to guess.

“I’m sure it would, my boy,” Sanwal says, jovial and totally unabashed. Shuffles a few of the rings around. “But I didn’t know if I could trust you. You may not have noticed, but our mutual friend here is a little biased. Consider your worth proven, after all.”

“Yeah, well you can cram your approval,” Dean snaps. Fuck this guy and his secrets. “We’re leaving.”

“You’re what?!”

Emma. Shit, he hadn’t meant to say that, hadn’t thought. So much for breaking it to her gently, so much for a nicer goodbye.

“Em, I’m sorry,” he says, and finds he means it. “We have to. Like I said, kid, it’s biblical.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, full-face frown that Sam would be proud of, fixed accusingly on Benny.

“You’re going with them,” she says, and it’s not a question. 

It _shouldn’t_ be a question, Dean thinks. It’s been a given the whole time as far as he's concerned.

Benny only came back here because Dean asked him to; if Dean had left him to his own devices he’d probably still have been alive on Earth, not stuck down here playing at Survivor. 

Of fucking _course_ Benny is coming with them.

“Yeah,” Benny tells her. Exchanges a look with Cas, then Dean. “If they’ll have me.”

“Of course,” Cas says, at the same time as Dean’s, “No question, brother.”

“Good riddance!” Sanwal cheers, hands raised and everything. “Without the human, the portal is once again useless and Eve has no reason to keep pressing us!”

“I doubt it,” Cas says, gravely. “If Eve does Chuck’s bidding, she won’t stop until we stop him.”

“Guess we’re gonna fight God, then,” Benny huffs, half a laugh and none of the humour. It’s not really a joke, and they all know it.

“Then go,” Sanwal says, shoos them out the door. “Do it quickly, while there’s still some of us left down here to save, and maybe we’ll be grateful.”

The dude's an annoying cheery dickweed, but he's not wrong. 

It’s another mark against Chuck’s system. Innocent souls, like Eileen, damned and tormented for the crime of being killed by a rogue Hellhound; spirits, like Kevin, trapped and wandering, denied any kind of closure, slowly going mad; and now these monsters, vengeful killers or collateral damage or somewhere in between, and all locked in the same indiscriminate cage for eternity. 

It’s not right. It’s not _fair,_ and maybe once they end Chuck’s puppet show they can rebalance the whole theatre.

Dean has scaled the base of the cliff before he realises, caught up in his _what-if’s_. One thing at a time. Get home first.

He turns to check Cas and Benny are ready, but it’s Emma who catches his elbow.

“Take me with you.”

“What?”

“Take me with you!” she shouts. “You’re leaving, you’re always leaving. You said you couldn’t come and go, and yet here you go again!”

“Em,” Benny starts, hand on her shoulder, but she shakes him off.

“You can’t leave me here again! You _won’t_ , I won’t let you!”

And Dean feels for her, he does. But. It’s not an issue of want.

“Emma,” he says. Firm, because she doesn’t need his coddling. “We don’t know if you can.”

She looks between them, Benny and him, and then Cas, like that might change the answer.

“What d’you mean?”

“The spell,” Benny explains, gently. “We know it works for vamps. But you’re half-human, hon. We’ve no idea if it’d take.”

“And even if it does,” Dean says. Tears the bandaid off quickly. “Token Human over here has to carry the souls across the threshold. I don’t know if I can take you both. I’m sorry.”

She’s crying, unashamedly crying, tracks streaking down her dirty cheeks, but her eyes blaze bright and green and fierce, and she doesn’t look away. She clenches her jaw, tight, nods. Drops her hold on Dean’s arm and steps back, resigned.

“We,” Cas says. Stalls, sighs. Starts again. “There might be another way.”

Hesitation breeds hesitation; the barely-there trip in his voice makes Dean pause. Panic, maybe, a little, because this is where it all went wrong last time, too.

“What other way?”

“My grace,” he says, and once it’s out he looks more sure of it, face determined and set. “I can try to suppress the Amazonian in Emma’s DNA as we cross. Without it, you’re technically human.”

“That’ll work?” Benny asks what Dean is thinking, too.

Cas shrugs, helplessly. “I can’t make promises. But it should. I think.”

“Well, I trust you,” Dean tells him.

He does, with everything he has, and he hasn't done a great job of showing it lately but it's true. Cas wouldn’t risk Emma’s life, no matter how pissed he was at Dean.

But Cas’ grace is failing, he said so himself.

“You sure you have the batteries for this? How much juice you still got, Cas?”

Cas meets his gaze with a long, weighted look.

“Enough for this,” he looks at Emma. “If it’s what you want.”

“It is,” she nods, and that takes it right out of Dean’s hand for better or worse.

“Okay. Okay, we’re doing this, huh.”

“Is everybody ready?” Cas asks, solemnly. 

Dean grabs Cas’ hand, grips tight and pointedly ignores Emma’s cockly little eyebrow quirk. He is _not_ leaving Cas behind now.

With his other arm, he grabs for Benny’s arm, feels the pulse of the spell buzzing under the skin. 

“Ready,” Dean says. Grips them both tight. “Let’s go kick God’s ass.”

And with a flash of white grace on his right and the frizzling orange of the ritual activating on his left, they step into the portal home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you can spare a minute for some feedback, it'd be much appreciated :D


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